Black Sun Rising
by Mortaegus
Summary: AU end of sixth year. The war spiraled out of control. Harry fought alongside his friends, but many died in the conflict. When Voldemort is finally defeated, it is discovered that he has set in motion the extinction of humanity. Harry, after all he has sacrificed, discovers a way that he can save what was lost, and he will risk everything for the chance to unmake the past.
1. Chapter 1

**_Author's Note: _****_It should be obvious, but I must declare that I own no rights to the Harry Potter story or any of its characters. All such ownership belongs to J. K. Rowling. Only characters of my own creation are not hers, and I reserve no rights upon them, so if they catch your fancy feel free to use them._**

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Chapter One:

Harry Potter stood on the edge of the field, watching the battle that would end the war. It was late spring, and the afternoon sun glared oppressively hot from the clear sky above. His raven black hair was matted with perspiration, and he blinked away a drop of sweat that touched the corner of his right eye. His left hand was missing his pinky and ring fingers, the result of a battle over a year ago. Reaching up with his scarred offhand to wipe his forehead on his sleeve, he focused his stark green eyes on the battle before him. It was yet undetermined who would emerge the victor. This would be the last stand of the French and German ministries, all of their remaining strength was gathered at the château du Haut-Kœnigsbourg, and Voldemort was obliged to lay siege. Before the end of Harry's sixth year, Voldemort himself had invaded Hogwarts, killing Dumbledore and many of the teachers, capturing the students and holding their lives hostage to force their families to capitulate. Even as the school fell into their hands, Death Eaters attacked the ministry, disabling the floo network and securing their hold over Wizarding Great Britain. In short, a single night had crippled any hope of preventing Voldemort's second rise to power.

Harry had been lucky to escape the school with his friends. The Felix Felicis potion certainly contributed to that achievement, much to the consternation of the Death Eaters. Most of the DA members had made it out of the school and into Hogsmeade through the secret passage, but some had been captured. Leaving them behind was one of the hardest decisions Harry had ever made. Neville had taken the rearguard, and was downed by a Crucio before he could make it to the exit. Harry had turned back to help his friend when Neville blasted the ceiling of the tunnel, raining rocks and debris down upon the Death Eaters and sealing the passage. He had been trapped as well, and there was no time to save him.

If he had known then what he knew now, he could have destroyed Voldemort that night, and none of his friends need to have died. Harry knew it was stupid to think on what could have been when he had a task to attend, but his nostalgia was overwhelming. It was stupid, because even if he had defeated Voldemort, the Death Eaters that followed him would not have been stopped so easily. They had the advantage, and were better organized than before. Lucius Malfoy was more cunning and determined than Voldemort could ever hope to be, though he had nowhere near his master's power. If Voldemort was struck down back then, Lucius would have assumed command in an instant, likely as soon as he sent a killing curse into Bellatrix Lestrange's back. Lucius would have been a more capable and dangerous leader of the Death Eaters, if only because he wasn't insane.

Thankfully Lucius was already removed as a threat. Five weeks after the fall of Hogwarts and the Ministry, he had attacked the Burrow with six other Death Eaters, capturing Molly, Ron, and Ginny Weasley. Harry and Luna had gone with Hermione to see to the safety of her parents. When Harry returned with the others to the Burrow, the house that had become his second home was ablaze, and his friends and surrogate mother were dead. The loss still burned. No amount of vengeance could assuage his fury.

Lucius Malfoy was already elected to be the new minister of magic, and Percy Weasley was happy to grovel and serve him and his advisors some tea. Lucius enjoyed taunting Percy over his family's deaths; flaunting the power he had over the young man by making him foreswear his kin. The poison wasn't detected until it was far too late to save the Death Eaters. Percy escaped retribution with the expedient use of a timeturner. The setback this dealt to Voldemort was possibly the only reason Harry escaped Great Britain.

Percy and his father, Arthur, were even now entering the fray.

Percy was fast, casting two spells for every one he blocked, and constantly using the terrain against his opponents. He dug a ditch filled with water in the earth behind his opponent and forced the Death Eater to step back with a blast of superheated air against his shields. As the man fell backwards into the watery ditch a simple charm froze the water solid, trapping him. Percy finished him off quickly.

Arthur was far more deliberate in his actions, striding forward with careless abandon, as though he no longer feared death. Given the loss he suffered, and the horrible grief he often expressed, it was likely that the man was suicidal. Nevertheless he showed no intention of dying easily. He killed one Death Eater by transfiguring the ground beneath him into a spike, which impaled the man. Three more Death Eaters made to attack him, but he struck first. A red orb shot from the tip of his wand, striking the ground and raising a wall of fire between him and two of the Death Eaters. The third was killed by a conjured sword which appeared above his head and plunged downward. The fire was dispelled by one of the remaining two, and the other cast a very dark curse. Arthur disapparated behind the two, avoiding the curse, and killed them both with a single cutting hex.

Hermione and Luna had died before what would have been the start of Harry's seventh year at Hogwarts. Voldemort had consolidated his power in Great Briton and had turned his attention towards the continent. They had fled to the continent and were working with French Aurors to attack targets of opportunity inside Voldemort's territory. Susan Bones had been a part of their party during several raids against Death Eaters, while Hanna Abbot had facilitated their coordination with the French and German ministries.

The two girls approached the designated meeting place and Harry, Hermione, and Luna met them warmly. Except that Susan had been imperiused and triggered the magical equivalent of a bomb in the middle of the group. Luna seemed to sense something wrong at the last moment, and dove on top of Susan, providing a partial shield to the others. Luna and Susan died instantly. Hanna survived, but was crippled. Her left leg was simply gone. Harry and Hermione were blasted back, but Hermione smashed into a tree, and a branch pierced her heart. She died seconds later, before Harry had even picked himself off of the ground. Harry was in a complete state of shock. Hanna was the one who had the wits to use her emergency portkey to get Harry and herself to safety behind French wards. He wept for days, unable to contain himself.

Ansgar Gottschalk, a muggle whose child would have started Hogwarts two years ago, stepped up beside Harry. The Death Eaters had access to the Hogwarts registry, and tracked down and killed any muggleborns and their families. Harry had been passing through by chance, and saw the attack unfolding. He intervened too late to save the child or her mother, but he was able to avenge them. Ansgar, distraught with loss, tried desperately to understand what had happened. Unable to deny him the truth, Harry told the man about the secret world of magic, the war with Voldemort, and left Hermione's old trunk with him.

Ansgar had once been an unassuming man. He used to dress well, and took pride in his professional appearance. Now he stood with ragged brown hair and a weariness in his eyes. There was a constant crease in the thick bushy eyebrows that crowned them; a hardness that few could match. His clothes had seen better days. He hadn't cared enough to take the time to look good. Not in the two years since his family died. Ansgar was at one point, literally, a rocket scientist. More recently, he designed architecture for microprocessors and did zero-level coding for computer chip manufacturers. He held two doctorates, knew eleven languages, and was the most rational and grounded individual Harry would ever meet. But the revelations about magic shook his worldview. Even through the pain of his loss, he could not refute the evidence that magic was real. So after the funerals were endured, he started reading. He finished every book in Hermione's magically enlarged trunk within two months.

Already knowing Greek and Latin undoubtedly helped, but Ansgar forced himself to learn the runic forms of Norse and Celtic as well. And he began to truly understand magic; even if he couldn't use that knowledge himself. He designed a few hundred experiments and called Harry back to him with Hermione's mirror. When Harry arrived, he gave him a codex of spells that he had designed. Some of these spells were complex, others staggeringly simple; all of them proved useful. After seeing the extent of his efforts, Harry agreed to help Ansgar conduct his experiments. Ansgar painted a network of runes onto his own skin and Harry imbued them with his magic, allowing Ansgar to fool magical wardings into thinking he was a Squib.

"We'll be ready soon." Ansgar said. "We just need them to commit everything to this."

"As soon as _he_ shows up, give the signal." Harry said.

Fritz Krause, leading the last of the German Aurors, apparated into battle with a series of deafening cracks. Fritz was the former head of the British Ministry of Magic's Unspeakables, and had taken a hostile stance against Voldemort's government. He was an extremely competent wizard, having headed the Unspeakables for over a hundred years. Harry was the only person alive who knew his real name, since the knowledge of his name was contained within a modified fidelius charm. The modification came about when the Unspeakables were experimenting with trying to tie the charm to a person rather than a location. The hope had been that such a person could be the perfect spy and assassin, since nobody would be able to perceive their existence, even if they were to start firing curses at people. The purpose of the experiments was never realized, but the ability to hide names was achieved. Given that the Unspeakables had been around for less than two hundred years, Harry wondered if Fritz wasn't the reason for their name.

Fritz was as old, but still able to hold his own. No one who had ever met him could later recall anything about his features. Neither his hair or eye color, nor his height, weight, nor skin tone could be remembered. Though people could recognize him if they met him again, it would only last until they could no longer see him. Fritz and the Aurors following him smashed into the eastern flank of the Death Eater army, killing the cursebreakers before they could take down the wards that protected the castle. As soon as their targets were dead, Fritz's group disapparated to the hilltop; another step in the plan achieved.

Harry judged the moment right, and shot orange sparks high into the air. Fred and George Weasley set off the chain of runes that would throw up a screen to cover their retreat, and the combatants disengaged from the Death Eaters, fleeing up the hillside even as a magically conjured rockslide flew down the slope towards the field below. The boulders, some of them weighing many tons, were each inscribed with runes to guide their descent down the hillside. They bounced and jerked to avoid allies, even as they deliberately crushed and bludgeoned enemies. The effect was immediate. The Death Eaters pulled back to regroup. They still outnumbered the defenders heavily, but they simply couldn't withstand the losses they would take if they charged up the hill.

Then _he_ arrived. Draco had done his part. He had somehow convinced the Dark Lord that his troops had seized the castle and held Harry Potter helpless, awaiting his pleasure. Not expecting to come onto a battlefield, Voldemort paused to think. Ansgar had not hesitated, and with a series of terrific **CRACKS** that boomed across the sky above the field, the Americans arrived. Huge wardstones, bright blue crystal carved with countless runes, were apparated into position by five teams of six American Aurors. The wardstones fell straight to the ground, smashing into the earth and throwing up an impressive spray of dirt. Even still, they stood perfectly upright and unblemished. Energy crackled within them and a beam of coherent light lashed between each of the wardstones, forming a pentagon. Voldemort was trapped.

He immediately turned on Draco with the killing curse. Harry met Draco's eyes right before it hit, acknowledging what they both knew would happen. Draco died a moment later. A scream of anguish from the battlements of the castle told him that Narcissa had been watching. She was the price of Draco's loyalty. The Dark Lord had decided that she was no longer useful to him and had ordered Draco to kill her. Snape had gone with him, to ensure that he followed through. A bit of polyjuice and an unsuspecting Bellatrix were used to falsify her death, while Snape ensured that she was brought safely to Harry's camp. Bellatrix was her sister, and they already looked enough alike that the polyjuice held for the two days that Voldemort had kept the body on display, as an example of what unshakable loyalty looked like, for the rest of his followers. The irony was not lost on Harry.

Aleksei Zolnerowich had arrived with the Americans. He was a Russian born wizard, whose father, Dimitri Zolnerowich, had long ago learned the truth about Voldemort. His father had captured Nagini only a few years after Voldemort's fall, and recognizing the snake for the horcrux it was, set about containing the problem. Dimitri dabbled in necromancy, and performed a very old and very dark ritual upon the soul fragment inside the snake, binding it and all the other pieces of Voldemort's soul, preventing him from returning to life so long as the binding held. While the snake was contained within the wards of the ritual, Voldemort could not escape the half-life he had been condemned to exist.

Their house was kept under a fidelius charm, but the snake was linked to Voldemort, so the Dark Lord knew where the house was. He also knew that his pet was contained and that his resurrection was impossible so long as this was true. When Bartemius Crouch was freed from his father and returned to Voldemort, during the summer after Harry's third year, Voldemort sent Crouch to retrieve his snake. Crouch was unable to breach the fidelius, but was able to imperius young Aleksei. He sent the boy into the house to free the snake and then used him to murder his family. Unable to cast the killing curse upon his loved ones, Aleksei had been compelled to use cutting and bludgeoning hexes. Finally breaking free of the imperius, Aleksei found himself in a room awash in the blood of his family, their mangled bodies and silent screams a tormenting nightmare that would never leave him. He fled, stumbling into the street and vomiting in the road, even as the venom from the snake overcame him. Nagini had left him a parting gift.

The Russian ministry found him in a muggle hospital, and took him to a magical facility. When he finally recovered, Aleksei swore vengeance upon the Dark Lord. Harry had actually fought alongside him twice without knowing it. The first time they met, Aleksei had been laying an ambush for Death Eaters when Harry encountered them and attacked, almost walking into the ambush himself. Aleksei set his trap off early to prevent Harry from being caught in it, and proceeded to help him against the remaining Death Eaters, but left before Harry could even ask his name.

The second time, Aleksei had been tracking a group of Death Eaters and intended to set another of his ambushes. It was instead him who was ambushed, since the Death Eaters were most displeased with how many of their number Aleksei had killed, and knowing his habits, had made their own trap with themselves as bait. Harry rescued him from their forward base three weeks later, during one of the resistance's few counter-offensives. The former captive immediately took up the fight, helping to secure the base. They had been friends ever since, and Aleksei provided a great deal of information about horcruxes that they would otherwise never have known. It was his father's journal that provided the key knowledge that Ansgar had needed to make this work. Since they had never been able to locate all of Voldemort's horcruxes, they had found a way to ignore them. The wardstones would abolish the connection between Voldemort and his horcruxes. If he died within this cage, he died forever.

Disapparation and portkey travel were impossible within the warding, and the line between the wards could not be crossed from the inside. The wardstones themselves were unassailable without multiple points of attack. Even though Voldemort himself was a more than capable cursebreaker, he couldn't break the wardstones without help. And Fritz had seen to it that any among his army who might have been able to help him were already dead. The wardstones had enough energy to hold for hours, but the Death Eaters, even trapped – even with American reinforcements, still outnumbered the defenders.

"This is it." Harry said. A strange sense of calm had fallen over him, an acceptance of what was to come. He walked down the slope, his allies flocking to his side. Fleur Delacour and Bill Weasley came down from the battlements, both of them grim and determined. Arthur and Percy joined them, Percy taking a swig of a potion before passing it off to his father, who declined, but passed it on further to Bill, who sipped it gingerly.

"Felix Felicis?" Bill asked, giving it to Fleur. His fiancé finished the flask.

"Borrowed it from Mr. Unspeakable." Percy replied. "Damn. I hate how I can't say his name. Can't even think it, even though I've heard you say it." He said, looking at Harry.

Harry merely shrugged. "Can't help you there."

The Unspeakable in question approached with a pair of German Aurors. "We ready for the final showdown?" He asked.

Harry nodded.

Fritz looked at him solemnly. "I can't guess what you're feeling right now, Harry. I know you think that you're obligated to do this. But nobody could blame you for having second thoughts. It isn't fair that this is placed on you."

"I'm not afraid." Harry was indignant. "Life isn't fair. But this… this is my choice. It _has_ to be my choice. If it isn't done of my own free will, it won't work." They continued down the hillside, watching as the Death Eaters futilely attacked the wardline.

Aleksei was waiting for them just in front of the wards. His blond hair was tied back in a ponytail, and his blue eyes were rimmed by steel framed spectacles. "Moment of truth, Harry."

Harry looked into their trap, eyes flitting from one Death Eater to another. He found Snape, the man's legilimency smacking his occlumency shields the moment their eyes met. He gave a subtle nod. Snape immediately threw two dozen beads into the air, which enlarged into fragile glass spheres about a foot in diameter, with different colored liquids and vapors inside. The spheres hit the ground, and not a few Death Eaters, shattering and spilling their contents everywhere. There was a fiery explosion and an unbelievable **WHUMP** as the shockwave slammed into the wards with enough force to make the intangible barrier flare brightly. Taking advantage of their enemies' confusion, Harry and his allies charged through the wardline and entered the fray.

Almost a third of the Death Eaters were dead outright, either from the concussion of the explosion or the conflagration of the gasses. Another third were dying or otherwise incapacitated and would not be participating in the fight. The last third was not unscathed, but was still able to press the attack. Snape himself had vanished. Harry was disinclined to consider the matter further. His mother's friend was likely dead. The battle was joined immediately, with a massive salvo of killing curses headed for Harry's group. Three were from Voldemort himself.

Fritz muttered an unnamable spell and a wall of diamonds appeared in front of them. There must have been a thousand fist sized diamonds in the wall. Wherever the killing curses struck, diamonds dissolved into dust, but the wall shifted and the hole was plugged. Even still, the wall noticeably shrank after only twenty seconds. Voldemort managed to fire two killing curses at the exact same spot, the second one slipping past the wall before another diamond was shifted to fill the gap. Fleur, who would have been struck by the curse, slipped on the ground and landed completely on her back as the curse passed over her. Liquid luck had its uses.

They reached the wall and were able to stick their wands through the gaps and fire their own spells at the Death Eaters. A few of them managed to transfigure some defensive cover, but most attempted to shield or dodge the spells that were sent against them. One of the Death Eaters was particularly good, seeming to avoid their attacks with as much ease as those dosed with the Felix Felicius. He threw his mask to the side, revealing himself to be Amycus Carrow, one of Voldemort's inner circle. With a bow towards Harry, he cast a hex at the ground just in front of the shield, and the dirt collapsed in an expanding circle, seeming to drop into a bottomless hole. Most of them jumped back in time, but Arthur was not fast enough. He fell into the hole and was only barely caught by Bill snatching his hand. Percy cast the levitating charm and Arthur was pulled to safety.

Antonin Dolohov, another of the inner circle, canceled his disillusionment, having walked around and positioned himself behind Harry. He was halfway through a blood boiling curse when Snape canceled his own disillusionment from behind _him_ and sent him into the hole with a blasting hex. "Tisk tisk, Mr. Potter." Snape said with his usual superiority.

Harry only grinned at him. "Thanks."

"Have you not taken your Felix Felicius yet?" Snape asked. "I did not spend months of my time brewing it simply to have you forget to drink it!"

"I need to save it until just before I fight him." Harry replied. "It doesn't last long enough anymore." He had been building a strong resistance to the potion after repeated doses over the last four years. It was a highly unusual development, and hindered his ability to use it effectively. Thankfully he never became addicted, but the loss of the potion's benefits hurt.

Snape nodded his acceptance of the decision. "I gave the Dark Lord what he thought was liquid luck just before he chose to send his followers into battle. It was brewed improperly, with more than a little malaclaw venom. He will find himself quite devoid of any luck for a few hours yet." It was a measure of Snape's skill as a potions master that he could brew such a difficult potion deliberately wrong, yet in such a way as to leave no evidence that he had done so. "My defection and betrayal is undoubtedly known now. If this battle goes poorly, he will use a ritual to kill me through the mark."

Harry met his gaze. "I won't fail."

Snape looked away. "See that you don't." He said, unable to face Lily's child, or the certain death that he was condemned to.

Aleksei spoke up. "The Americans are in position." He said, tossing a few rune covered pebbles into the air and banishing the lot of them towards some Death Eaters that were creeping around the edge of the diamond wall. The small stones began glowing and emitting sparks before they struck, exploding with a massive burst of incandescent light and blasting the Death Eaters violently away. None of them got up from where they landed.

"They're flanking us!" Percy called out.

"I'll handle it." Aleksei replied, calmly facing the right side of their defense.

Aleksei pulled out his pistol. The Zolnerowich family were master artificers and enchanters, and had remade the muggle weapon into an effective means of combatting magicals. The commission of the pistol was given to a master gunsmith, who custom built the weapon to be modeled after a point forty-five colt, long barrel special. The barrel was less round and more of a rectangular block that would have been bulky without the enchantments. The pistol was an eight-shot, and given the size of the bullets the cylinder was as ungainly as the barrel. The handle was the only thing not charmed to be lighter, with a heavy grip to steady the aim of the weapon.

After it was forged through mundane means it was further enchanted and magically reforged. The piece was almost entirely metal, a dark colored steel, with finely etched gold runes. There were literally hundreds of runes on the weapon, and they briefly lit up when Aleksei's hand gripped the handle. The pistol could only fire eight shots before it needed reloading, and each of those bullets had to be carved with runes and magically reforged, just as the gun itself was, before they could be used effectively. This was a process that took many hours for every bullet, and left the enchanter magically exhausted. But it allowed the weapon to work against wizards.

Harry discovered early on why muggle weapons were useless against wizards. Simple shields could reverse the kinetic energy of anything that hit them, and simple wards could dramatically affect momentum and inertia. These protections were affected by the mass of the projectile rather than its speed, which meant that a thrown rock was more effective than bullets. A slightly more complex ward, but still something that a skilled fourth year could accomplish, would negate combustion in a large area. Without the ability to ignite the nitrates used in bullets, guns would not fire, and muggle bombs would not explode. Yet despite these easy countermeasures, few wizards bothered to employ them. This meant that during the first few moments after the muggle guns were revealed, they had free reign in attacking with them. It was a great ambush tactic, and sometimes allowed a quick victory. But Voldemort had caught on, and it was now standard practice for his Death Eaters to employ anti-combustion wards.

Of course, Aleksei Zolnerowich's pistol didn't _care_ about such things, and neither did his hand-crafted bullets. He raised the pistol, firing rapidly and with practiced ease. Eight shots resulted in three dead and two wounded enemies, with one bullet missing the mark, deflected by a really powerful shield that had sprung into existence after his seventh shot. It required a powerful shield to deflect, because the runes on the bullets weren't merely there to allow the ammunition to fire, but to give it considerably more force and imbue them the power to breach most magical defenses. Aleksei dropped the barrel down, ejecting the empty cartridges, and loading more bullets from the ammo loops on his wristband. This time he pulled back one a lever mechanism on the sides of the barrel. When it slid back, the lower half of the barrel dropped down slightly, then split in two and moved apart.

The two protrusions extended slightly, angled so that they were further apart at the ends. It was a mechanical motion, built into the weapon. The runes on the two components under the barrel began to glow brightly, and sparks and arcs of electricity surged between them and the barrel. Then Aleksei fired. The bullet was so bright when it left the barrel that it left a left a visible line of light, burned into the vision of anyone who saw it. It crashed into the shield that had defied the previous shot. It exploded upon impact, sending lightning bolts arcing all around it. The shield failed; its caster dead from the magical drain. Another shot killed the four Death Eaters who had been hiding behind him. Aleksei slid the lever forward, closing the underbelly of the barrel. "Overheated it." He explained with a grimace.

Fritz canceled the bottomless pit hex, rolled forward to his wall, and fired a cutting curse just underneath. Amycus Carrow lost both of his feet, falling face first to the ground. Just as he was lifting himself up by his hands a second cutting curse removed them as well. His screams became tainted with madness and he started cursing the 'Unspeakable Bastard' that crippled him.

Voldemort walked forward and glanced at him. "You're useless now." He said, ending him with a silent killing curse. "I tire of your continued survival, Potter. You think this pentagram will hold me? You've trapped yourself! Let the games begin." Harry saw something that gave him pause. Voldemort had Dumbledore's old wand in his hand. Why? A wand chooses its wielder, and even if a wand taken from a defeated enemy would obey the victor, it would never be loyal. Harry had no time to ponder the mystery. Voldemort waved the wand, and a shower of turquoise sparks alighted against the diamonds, turning them all to dust which fell to the ground.

A single wave of the wand had destroyed their defense. Fritz stood up, but he was so far forward from the rest of them that he had no support. Arthur sent a bone breaking curse at the Dark Lord, but it was blocked effortlessly. Voldemort waved the wand once, twice, thrice, firing a cutting hex and a flaying curse and a crushing curse in the span of a single second. Fritz dodged the first, blocked the second, but his knees buckled and he was pinned to the ground with a cry of anguish as the third hit.

"Fight me then!" Harry shouted, stepping forward and tossing the now empty vial of Felix Felicius aside. It would be another thirty seconds before the potion would begin to work.

"There's no need to end it so soon. I thought you wanted to play?" Voldemort asked, glancing at Harry even as he swished the wand. Fritz was instantly crushed into bloody paste.

"Murdering bastard!" Harry said. The battle erupted around them as the American Aurors charged past the wardline on both flanks and began fighting with the Death Eaters. The Weasleys and Fleur were caught up battling Augustus Rookwood and Walden Macnair. Aleksei meanwhile was engaging Thorfinn Rowle and Bradley Nott, and barely holding his own.

Harry was almost unaware of the conflict around him; he was so focused upon Voldemort that nothing else intruded. Voldemort flicked the wand, and Harry raised a shield charm, expecting to deflect an attack. Instead, a summoning charm bypassed his shield and yanked him forward. Voldemort seemed to glide forward with an unnatural quickness, grasping Harry by the neck with his offhand even as he stabbed the wand into Harry's arm. The tip of Dumbledore's wand glowed a sickly yellow-green, and all of the bones in his hand and arm shattered and broke. His wand fell uselessly from his ruined fingers. "My great foe, so easily defeated. All their hopes rested on you, and you weren't enough." Voldemort taunted. "I think I'll try something besides the killing curse this time. It hasn't worked on you so far and I'd rather not fail again. Maybe I'll use a knife. That could be fun."

Snape stalked past Nott, barely glancing to flick his wand and blast the Death Eater away. Aleksei shouted a quick thanks and returned to fighting Rowle.

Voldemort spared a glance for Snape. "Traitor. You'll die slowly." He spat. While he was distracted by talking, Harry flailed his legs and kicked out, striking him in the chin. Voldemort lost a bit of his tongue when his teeth smashed together, and he spat blood as he hissed in fury. As Harry continued to thrash about, and another kick hit Voldemort's wrist, sending Dumbledore's wand tumbling away. Shrieking in rage, his grip on Harry's throat tightened and his nails drew blood that left streaks of red flowing down his fingers as Harry choked in his grip. Snape shot a pair of maiming curses towards his former master, which Voldemort wandlessly battered aside. Voldemort retrieved his own wand in an instant and hit Snape with something that caused the man to convulse violently on the ground, before passing out.

Voldemort turned his anger upon Harry, pointing his wand at his still flailing legs he used the same maiming curse that Snape had just cast at him. He deliberately controlled the power of the curse to cause the most pain. The bones in Harry's knee exploded and his left leg was all but violently blasted from his body. It held together only through the gristle of his flesh and muscles. A few bits of bone fragments tore through his skin and a streak of blood splashed across Voldemort's face as he laughed at the silently screaming boy who was finally at his mercy.

Harry choked back a sob from the pain in his arm and the agony in his leg, but couldn't help but grin as a familiar confidence washed over him. "Guess what?" He asked smugly. "I just got lucky." He explained, kicking out with his good leg. He heard the satisfying snap as Voldemort's wand connected with his boot and broke under the impact. Voldemort froze in a moment of shocked disbelief, and Harry drew back and stomped on Voldemort's crotch. He was dropped instantly as Voldemort staggered back. Harry snatched his wand with the three good fingers on his scarred left hand and rolled to his feet, somehow avoiding any further injury to his destroyed arm and leg. But he knew it wouldn't last; the liquid luck was already fading. He had to act soon, or he would lose this chance. "This is where it ends for you." He told Voldemort, his voice devoid of feeling. "This is where justice is finally done." Harry wishes he could have justice, wishes he could have back all the people this monster took from him. "Will you beg forgiveness of the dead before I send you to meet them?"

"I am immortal." Voldemort laughs. "I will rise again and again until the end of time. You and your pitiful prophecy will not stand in my way. You are nothing! You live by ideals that give the fruit of your labors to those who would never work to earn them, who only take and never contribute. I will build a better society. Where those who are worthy will be rewarded, and the parasites and garbage will be cut off to die. Wizarding society is dying and I will save it from itself. I have already set it in motion. You cannot stop it now. Soon, everyone will see that I was right. That _purity_ is the only chance at salvation."

"An archaic ideology that deserves to die along with those that still cling to it." Harry said.  
"Truth always triumphs over conviction. I surrender myself to truth. I embrace it. And magic is truth, without regard for the quality of blood. My best friend was a muggleborn witch. And she had more magical ability than anyone else in our year. Truth that proves your words false!" The magic in the air was palpable. It thrummed with power and anticipation; the moment of destiny at hand. Harry blinked, the hum of magic ringing in his ears and hazing his eyes.

Voldemort felt weak. He looked at his left hand, staring in surprise as he saw why his fingers had fallen numb. Where the boy's blood had touched him, his skin was decaying. Already large pieces of his hand were in a state of necrosis, as though the blood was poisoning the flesh it touched. How was this possible? He had circumvented the boy's blood protection when he used that same blood in his resurrection! Yet the boy's blood was destroying him! His face burned as the blood that had splash him ate away at his flesh like an acid. Voldemort glared his hatred at Harry. The boy had escaped him again and again, costing him so many setbacks. Even now he faced another, though his death would be far more temporary than before. He had made arrangements to be resurrected much sooner. He would return to life in days, and the thought made him cackle madly. He couldn't help but taunt the boy more. "And where is your mudblood friend now? Dead, like all the others? So much for her power! All of them are dead now, aren't they, Potter? Don't you see: you've already lost." The magic flared dangerously. Even Voldemort seemed shaken, no longer certain of the outcome.

The magic seemed to flow through Harry. He gasped. "Do you not hear them? The dead cry out for vengeance! For blood and retribution!" He understood what his mother had done, all those years ago. She hadn't merely died for him. It wasn't love or the sacrifice of her life that saved him, though it was a sacrifice. She gave up her magic. Surrendered herself to it, and gave it life and awareness of its own. She bid it to protect her child, as the price of its freedom.

Every witch and wizard has a magical core within themselves. And it is a cage, which holds their magic. Only when the magic is subjugated to their will is it let out of the cage. To open the cage without first binding the magic to a purpose, indeed to break the cage so that the door is always open, to free the magic within oneself, is the greatest sacrifice a witch or wizard can make. For afterwards, the magic may simply leave them, never to return. They would be a squib.

Harry pointed his wand at his chest, needing no incantation, only his will and the focus of his purpose. A brilliant golden chain sprang up from his chest, wrapping around his wand and then entering his chest again. He was sure that his mother hadn't needed to do this. But he was not as skilled as her, and needed the symbolism. He snapped his wand in one swift motion, and the chain shattered along with it. The cage was opened, and his magic _sang_ to him!

It sang of life and love and hope. He felt himself lifted up, though his eyes could no longer see through the haze, which had turned a solid, bright white. The music of his magic was a cacophony of beautiful sound. The smell was intoxicating, making him feel _alive_ and _free_. He felt unburdened by the weight of destiny and the pain of his loss. Silky soft tendrils of magic caressed upon his skin, all over his body, and what felt like hands cupped his face as lips brushed against his. He opened his mouth and breathed; energy and warmth filling him inside and out.

Voldemort stared at him without comprehending. It made no sense! What was happening? What was the boy doing? What had he _done_? He was floating in the air, a few feet off the ground, glowing with a golden-white light that burned all too brightly. The heat of it made Voldemort's skin boil agonizingly. He lifted his hands to shield his face, but his skin flecked away and the tissue beneath burned as if on fire. A searing heat washed his flesh away, down to the charred bones, which fell away as dust. His body was consumed in a single flare of power, and only a shadow remained on the ground. The dark mark burned upon every Death Eater, all of them falling to the ground screaming. Their own magic turned against them in judgment, attacking those it found unworthy; punishing them. Snape alone was spared, and when he later woke and looked upon his arm there would be no trace of the mark at all.

Painlessly, the malignancy was torn away from Harry's soul, a black ichor spewing from his scar in a misty spray that evaporated in the heat of his magic. He felt clean, as if he had been purified by the warmth that enveloped him. His arm and leg no longer hurt, and he was utterly certain that both were healed. He sighed contentedly. He was at peace. His task was done. He could finally let go of his emotions, finally cry the tears that needed shed, finally mourn the dead. He wept, blind as he was, unable to feel anything except the magic that held him so gently, so delicately. He cried and wrapped his arms around himself, pulling his legs up to hide his face in his knees. Cedric. Sirius. Dumbledore. Neville. Ron. Ginny. Molly. Lupin. Tonks. Susan. Luna. Hermione. Draco. "I did it." He said aloud. "I finally did it. I completed the prophecy." He sobbed. "I'm free. And Voldemort's gone forever."

His magic held him more tightly, the pressure a kind of reassurance on his skin. He wished he could have saved them all. Wished that nobody had to die for him. Wished he was never the subject of prophecy. He wished he could give them all a better life. It wasn't fair that they were dragged into it because of him! It wasn't fair that they died because of him!

His magic washed over him, almost scolding. _Not because of you._ It seemed to whisper. _Because of him._

Voldemort.

It was saying that all of this was _his_ fault. So much suffering, so much pain and loss; the grief of it consumed him with wracking sobs. So what if they didn't die because of him! They died _for_ him. All so that he could have the chance to fulfil that stupid prophecy. They believed in him; believed that he would save them. They should have just run away instead. Now it was too late. Now they were all gone. What was he supposed to do?

_Live_. His magic caressed away his tears, like a mother kissing his face.

He didn't want to live. He wanted to die, to go on to whatever waited for him, to be with his friends again. To see Ginny laugh and Hermione smile. To see Luna dance under the moonlight and Ron flying his broom. He wanted Neville to realize how brave he really was. He wanted Draco to find a new home for himself and his mother. He wanted to hug Sirius again and tell him how sorry he was. He wanted to know his mother and father, to see them every day and never have to worry or be alone again. He shuddered. He was so alone right now. So empty. They were all gone! He didn't want it to be this way. He never wanted this fate. But it was finally done. He only wished he didn't have to be alone anymore.

_Not alone._ His magic promised. _Never alone again._ It said, filling him again with its passionate warmth, its absolute trust, and its unconditional love. A_lways be here. Promise._

Harry sighed, trusting his magic, and slipping off to sleep.

* * *

Harry woke feeling groggy. He was in a soft bed, with warm blankets and a fluffy pillow. Certainly better conditions than he had endured for most of the last four years. He slowly opened his eyes, staring at the stone ceiling, almost wishing it was the hospital wing. But the stone was the wrong color. It was the château du Haut-Kœnigsbourg. The battle came back to him, and he felt each moment: every fleeting hesitation, every instance of fear, every doubt of inadequacy. All the way forward to the final moment of surrender, when he accepted his fate, his cursed destiny, and gave himself and his life over to his magic.

He was supposed to die.

Yet he was still here. Was any of it real? Did it really happen, or did he just imagine it?

_Not imagined._ Came the answer in a rush of magical warmth and affection.

He wasn't alone. He would never be alone again. His magic had promised him. That was… oddly comforting. Like he had a friend he could always confide in, and could trust implicitly. He sighed contentedly.

"Awake at last, Mr. Potter?" Snape drawled.

Harry turned his head to find his old potions professor sitting in the chair beside his bed. He grinned. "Any idea what happened?"

"Well you started glowing brightly and sort of floated up into the air. Then you burned the Dark Lord to ash, and almost everyone who wore his mark endured several minutes of agonizing pain before passing out. Every one of them are squibs now."

Harry looked down sadly. "I'm sorry."

"What for?" Snape asked, enjoying the moment a little too much. The magic thickened in the air. Snape felt a static jolt, and blinked. "I certainly wasn't one of the ones affected." He said quickly, scowling at himself. "Sorry. I didn't mean to make you feel guilty." He had meant to tease Harry for a while, but knew better than to continue it with the boy's magic acting so protective of him. Clearly the boy's magic didn't like his attitude. It was odd that it lingered. Certainly none of them had expected that result. But the tests had been absolutely clear. Harry Potter was now a squib. The boy had no magic of his own anymore, even if what used to be his magic seemed so ridiculously attached to him. He would never cast a spell again.

"Oh." Harry said. "I'm glad you weren't punished twice for the same mistake. We couldn't have won without you. The liquid luck alone kept me alive for two years on the run. And saving Draco's mom meant he helped us. Voldemort wouldn't have come otherwise. Then you risked your life again to take out almost all of the Death Eaters he brought with him. We were outnumbered by so many that our trap wouldn't have mattered if you didn't do whatever the heck it was you did." Harry complimented. "That was some concoction you brewed up."

A grin tugged at the corner of Snape's mouth. "I retrieved Dumbledore's wand." He said, pulling it out of his robe pocket. "I know you're a squib now, so you can't use a wand anymore, but I thought you'd like to have it." He said, handing it over.

Harry took it gingerly. "Thanks." He said.

"I find it fascinating that your magic hasn't left you." Snape said, lost in thought.

"There is so much about that ritual that we never understood. My mother's diary never made it clear how it was supposed to work, only that by freeing my magic I could ask a boon from it, and it would give it to me before it left. She indicated that there weren't really limits on what could be asked for, only that it might refuse if it was too selfish or I was unworthy of the boon. She also noted that it was more likely to agree to the boon if the person performing the ritual made an offering or sacrifice to the magic. So that's what I did."

"I doubt you could be unworthy of anything, after all you sacrificed." Snape said. "What more could you possibly have given?"

"I set it free and then gave myself to it. I offered my life. We both knew the chances of me surviving without my magic weren't very good. I expected to die performing the ritual. The thing that makes it strange is that it accepted my offering. Which makes it even more of a mystery why I'm still alive. Maybe it is like those old loyalty oaths, where you swear fealty by giving yourself to your liege. The words of offering are quite similar. I guess that I belong to my magic? Can magic even hold such a position? If that is what happened, I have no idea what it means for me." Harry said. "It's funny though." He continued after a moment. "I never told my magic what I wanted for the boon. It just took action to kill Voldemort the moment I set it free."

"Those loyalty oaths all required a boon from the liege to the vassal. That is quite similar. But they were also specific in naming the person to whom the oath was made, and would not hold if the name given was false or spoken to an imposter."

"Do you think magic really needs to have a name for it to work? It _is_ magic, after all."

Snape had nothing to say to this. He knew nearly nothing about Lily's rituals. They were something he had never heard of before Harry brought the diary to his attention. She had been called the smartest witch of her generation, but her true potential likely outclassed the wizards as well. Certainly her affinity for delicate spellwork surpassed anything Snape had ever seen. "Come on. Let's get you some breakfast." He urged Harry to his feet and all but dragged him out of the medical ward. "I've been waiting for you to wake up for the last day and a half. I'm sure you're starving." At the mere mention of food, Harry's stomach growled. Snape let the grin spread across his face.

* * *

In the days since the second fall of Voldemort, the Wizarding World had begun a nonstop celebration that had lasted for three weeks and showed no signs of stopping. Every marked Death Eater that still lived was a squib. All of those who lived suffered through the pain of their magic abandoning them and burning the dark mark forever into their souls. Only Snape was spared the loss of his magic. His mark had been cleansed and the taint of it was gone. The mark remained visible on all those who lost their magic; a permanent brand to condemn their sins. Some Death Eaters died outright, and it was no surprise that those who did were the worst of the monsters that comprised Voldemort's willing followers.

Magical Great Britain was reviving. Families were coming out of hiding and people were trying to get basic services back up and running. The floo network was still down, and the most basic ministry services were mostly unavailable. St. Mungo's Hospital was barely staffed; almost all of the skilled healers had fled, leaving the remainder unable to provide adequate care. Diagon Alley was mostly closed down and abandoned. What shops weren't destroyed outright or preemptively closed had run dangerously low on merchandise.

The economy was in shambles. Gringotts had been all but destroyed when the goblins refused to surrender their banking monopoly. Voldemort had felt that wizards were better suited to handle their money, and had personally destroyed the wards guarding the vaults of any he deemed to be an enemy. He couldn't breach the protections on the oldest vaults, but most families were not so well protected. The goblins cried foul, demanding restitution. The interim government agreed two weeks later that all gold belonging to Death Eaters that were now squibs would be confiscated, and used to repay the money stolen from the vaults. Squibs were already, by ancient law, forbidden from withdrawing money out of family vaults. Any gold that was left after the looted vaults were restored would go to the goblin nation.

Many families simply abandoned Magical Great Britain in favor of France or Germany or America or Australia. It would be decades before they could begin to recover what had been lost and longer still before they could hope to surpass what they had once been. The population was so severely depleted that there were now less than forty thousand magicals living in Great Britain, down from a previous population of nearly ninety thousand.

In the four and a half years since Hogwarts fell, more than twelve thousand people had died. Many had fled, or were part of the group that lost their magic in the punishment after Voldemort fell. Some of those displaced citizens would return. Fifteen or twenty thousand were estimated to come back to their homeland. But the magical population of Great Britain was cut by a third. Four years of brutal war had left the continent equally devastated. The Death Eaters did not care about collateral damage, and had unleashed truly awful magic in the service of their master.

And Harry Potter: once again he was hailed as the savior of the world. Every citizen of every magical nation sang his praises, blessed his name, and begged his favor. It was maddening. He avoided them all as best as he could, but sometimes it wasn't possible. He hated the attention.

He had unfinished business.

Friends that needed buried.

He returned to Hogwarts to find the castle still mostly standing. The astronomy tower, where Dumbledore and Voldemort had dueled, and Dumbledore had died, had collapsed. Harry found no trace of Dumbledore's body. The rest of the school had escaped damage and was still intact. The house elves were still there, and assisted him in arranging things to his desires. The first he went for was Hermione. Her body was still in the forest, though almost three years had left very little. Susan and Luna left no trace. Hanna survived; moving with her parents to Australia after her injury left her unable to fight. Neville was still beneath the cave in; left there alongside the bodies of three Death Eaters he took down with him. His grandmother had passed, and Harry buried him alongside his mother and father in their family cemetery. Ron and Ginny were beside their mother in the burned out shell of their home. Arthur buried them all on their property.

Narcissa claimed Draco's body, and Snape helped her with the arrangements. More than a dozen Order members were unable to receive burial. The hideout at Grimmauld Place was destroyed with fiendfyre after being sealed shut during an Order meeting. Lupin, Tonks, and so many others were lost forever. It wasn't fair. None of it should have happened.

Harry tracked down Hermione's parents and reversed the memory charms on them. He almost wished he could leave them ignorant, but Hermione would never have wanted that, and they deserved to be able to mourn their daughter. He lost control of his emotions repeatedly as he told them all of what had happened. He relived his school days with their daughter, so that they could know her as he had come to, so they could see her as they had never been able. He cried with them, and attended the burial of their daughter and his closest friend. He felt despair. And hopelessness.

He returned to Hogwarts, and finished his project. There, in the middle of the entrance hall, a stone platform was placed. Upon it stood nine friends etched forever in stone, seven of them dead. They stood in a half circle, one hand outstretched, each reaching forward, committed to all of the others, a look of pure determination carved on their faces. An inscription plaque was mounted on the front of the platform.

'Brave as the lion, Loyal as the badger, Wise as the raven, Cunning as the snake.'

'Here we mark the sacrifice of our friends:

They who died for us and we who would gladly die for them.'

'When true darkness fell upon us, we stood against it:

Let our sacrifice burn a memory so bright it shines forever.'

Neville Longbottom; Hanna Abbot; Susan Bones; Luna Lovegood; Draco Malfoy; Ronald Weasley; Ginevra Weasley; Hermione Granger; Harry Potter

Every student that walked these halls, from now until the end of Hogwarts, would know what they did. The monument was a solemn memorial; a hope for a better future, that their sacrifice would not be in vain. Harry felt the tears return to his eyes. And he didn't hold back. "I miss you all so much." He wept. "I won't ever forget you." He placed his hand on the plaque, kneeling on the ground, and let the tears pour out of him until he could cry no more. His magic comforted him, gently allowing him to grieve. When he finally regained control of himself, he looked up, astonished, to find the stone had all turned to a brilliant white gold. He said a silent thanks to his magic.

Hogwarts would reopen. Students would return. Already plans were being made and the school's magic sang its anticipation. It was so different, now, than he remembered. Harry could feel the magic of the school, the bristling energy of it. He could close his eyes and see the pulsing lines of power imbedded in the walls and coursing through the air. He could touch it and hear the beating of its heart. It was so _alive_. He felt welcomed. The magic loved him. Called to him. Bid him to stay.

But these halls held too many memories. Every moment spent here was one where he was forced to relive the past he could never have back. He fled the castle, embracing the light summer rain as he roared his frustration to the heavens.

His mirror hummed.

He paused, wondering who would be trying to contact him. He pulled out the mirror and looked into the glass. "Hello?" He asked.

Instead of his reflection, Ansgar Gottschalk stared back at him. "Harry." He said. "I need to speak with you. Come to my lab as soon as you can."

Harry nodded. He owed his friend that much, and more. "I'll be there in a few hours." He promised. He wondered what the 'mad-muggle' had come up with now.

* * *

"I've discovered what lycanthropy is." Ansgar explained excitedly.

"What?" Harry asked. "I mean, we _know_ what it is. It's a curse." He elaborated. "Turns you into a werewolf during the full moon, if the sun is down and the moon is shining."

"Yes! But the question is who cast the curse?"

"Some really dark wizard?" Harry guessed. "I don't know. What does it matter, it was hundreds and hundreds of years ago, so unless the bastard has a horcrux he isn't our concern."

"Ah, but the context _matters_. It always has. Magic is about intention. We can't cure lycanthropy. It's a curse that resists all efforts to purge it, though some containments work. Notably the wolfsbane potion."

Harry sighed. Sometimes his friend just went off on these tangents that led in circles. "We know all that already, so why drag me out here?" Harry was, for all that he acted impatient, quite curious. Ansgar was not one to waste someone's time, but he was a natural teacher and tried to force people to reach their own conclusions.

"You're magic. It's the proof that magic is alive." Ansgar said. "That's the answer."

"What?" That didn't make any sense. What was the question again? Who cast the curse? "So you're saying that magic itself cast the curse?"

"Precisely!" Ansgar said.

"That's… but… why?" Harry asked. It didn't make sense.

"And that's the prize winning question!" He looked at harry expectantly. Harry shot him a look. "I have a theory, mind you." Ansgar grinned, and placed a book on top of a folded piece of paper on his desk. "But I want you to ask first. Independent verification."

"Why would magic curse people with lycanthropy?" He said aloud.

His magic swirled about him, a different tone than before. It almost felt pensive. _Punishment_. It answered at last.

Harry blinked, and Ansgar noticed. "Did it answer?" He asked.

Harry nodded. "It said it was punishment. But what did Remus ever do to deserve that?" He was angry. That wasn't justice. His mentor had been one of the kindest men he ever knew.

Ansgar pulled the paper from beneath the book and unfolded it, holding it out to Harry. He snatched it from his hands and read. 'Judgment.'

"Close enough." Harry nodded. "So you knew before you had a definite answer. How did you reach your conclusion?"

"One of the laws of magic that I discovered is that magic cannot die. That is to say that no unique form of magic will ever vanish from the world. It will simply be reborn. For instance: there are a dozen families that have metamorphmagus abilities, but most of them are unrelated, and each one is subtlety unique. Some of those families can only change their skin and hair color, others can only change from male to female or female to male. There have been cases in the past where one of those family lines died out. Every time, within a generation, that same metamorphmagus power showed up again in a different population group; a completely different bloodline suddenly showed the same power. Usually it appeared in a muggleborn or a halfblood. The Black family was known to have a very versatile metamorphmagus power that let them change almost any aspect of their physical form."

"Nymphadora Tonks had it. Okay, so where are you going with this?"

"Voldemort was obsessed with collecting these unique forms of magic. I got most of his notes from the Riddle manor while nobody was looking. When the last carrier of a power dies, it gets reborn, but Voldemort found a way to interrupt that process. To force the power to choose him instead of whomever it would have otherwise picked. That was why he was hunting the old families. He was after their unique magics. He has fairly detailed notes, but some of the key pieces of information were only kept in his head." Ansgar sighed. "So moving back to lycanthropy-"

"Wait. What about Tonks?" Harry asked, exasperated by his friend.

"-the thing about it is… We'll come back to that in a minute." Ansgar promised. "Now, the thing about lycanthropy is that it fits a pretty unique description. Only happens on the full moon, includes a shapechange, and related to wolves. That really helped narrow it down. Turns out there used to be a species of magical wolf, called lycans, that would change into humans on the night of the full moon. They were hunted to extinction about eight-hundred BCE. Right when the first werewolves started showing up. Do you understand? Magic wasn't punishing Remus Lupin. It was punishing mankind for killing off the lycans. Remus was just a victim caught in the crossfire."

"So can it be cured?" Harry asked. That would be something worth doing.

"I don't know. Maybe if some form of atonement was made, the curse would be lifted." He shrugged. "We're in uncharted territory here. Nobody else had ever understood even this much."

"So what does this have to do with Tonks?" Harry asked. "She's dead, so the magic picked someone else?"

"No, Harry, I'm afraid Voldemort got to her."

"How? They couldn't find Grimmauld Place. That's why they sealed the whole block and burned it with fiendfyre."

"According to his notes, Voldemort had some method of calling up the dead and subjecting them to questioning. He called Dumbledore, and forced the secret out of his ghost. Then he went after the Order."

"But that's… impossible." Harry said. "You can't just call the dead. Either they move on or they become ghosts. Dumbledore would never have stayed."

"I won't pretend to know yet how he accomplished it, but he did." Ansgar said. "There is no doubt that he was able to take Tonk's power. He kept notes on his progress of learning to use it, but kept the knowledge from his Death Eaters. Except for Nott, who he apparently trusted the most after Lucius and Bellatrix died."

"So? Now that he's dead it will be reborn properly." Harry guessed.

"Harry. Think." Ansgar said. "Why do you think you're a parselmouth?"

"I thought that was because of the piece of Voldemort's soul in my scar." Harry replied.

"Try using it." Ansgar insisted. "You don't have the horcrux in you anymore."

Harry nodded, closed his eyes, and tried to imagine a snake in front of him. "Hello." He said.

"That was English, Harry." Ansgar said chidingly.

Harry sighed, then closed his eyes and tried really, _really_ hard to imagine a snake in front of him. There was a yelp of surprise that was definitely human and not snake, and Harry opened his eyes to see a large boa sitting on the desk in front of him. Ansgar had fallen off his stool, and was standing up slowly. Harry wondered how this had happened.

_Just helping._ His magic hummed, playfully.

Harry smirked and looked at the snake. §Hello.§ He hissed. §Can you understand me?§

§Speaker!§ The snake hissed in reply. It looked up at him expectantly.

"Well. That just gives me more questions." Harry said. "I guess it wasn't tied to the horcrux." He stepped over to the desk and petted the snake, which hissed contentedly from his rubbing.

"No." Ansgar answered. "When Voldemort was defeated the first time, when you were a baby, he was trying to kill you. You were the last of your line, so he was undoubtedly performing whatever ritual allows him to hijack the unique magic and take it for himself. My first guess is that it backfired when he died, and you got all the unique magics he collected instead. Marking you as an equal, if the prophecy can be believed. Even if he lingered on as a wraith, his body was gone, his line extinct, the magic sought to be reborn."

"I don't think so. I still hear the memory of that night when I get too close to a dementor. I've heard the memory dozens of times now, and I don't recall him ever performing a ritual. Unless it was something that he prepared in advance? Otherwise I think you need a new theory."

"There are other possible reasons. It could simply have picked you. Remember, magic is about intention. It intended justice. It took from him and gave to you in restitution for what he did: for the murder of your parents and the attempt on your life. I don't think there is any way for me to be certain without more evidence."

"So you think I have Tonk's metamorphmagus powers?"

"I would not discount the possibility, but that isn't an absolute." He said. "There is another instance you should be aware of. You slew a basilisk in your second year. The last surviving member of that particular species. The breed which survives to this day can petrify with a gaze, but _that one_ could kill. A unique magic."

"So you think I'll become a werebasilisk!?" Harry exclaimed.

"No. The shapechange was already a part of the unique magic that made the wolf what it was, and it was passed along with the power. But if you suddenly start killing people by looking at them, I wouldn't be too shocked." Ansgar smirked. "I would be much more interested in finding out what form of animagus you take. After all, it would not be justice for you to be punished for defending yourself. Not when you were only there to save the life of another. I doubt the magic would punish you."

"Basilisks had a weakness too: the crow of a rooster." Harry said. "Am I going to fall over dead if I hear one some morning?"

"Ah, I do not believe that is quite accurate." Ansgar explained. "The word is cock, and it is a mistranslation. The beast that kills a basilisk with a crow is a cockatrice: another magical creature, and a mortal enemy of all snakes." He smiles. "I don't believe you have much chance of encountering one of those. They have been extinct for almost three hundred years, and that unique magic has come to manifest itself in the cry of an aquatic predator, an atoral, which is a kind of magical sea turtle. The unique magic was a means of hunting prey, which for the cockatrice was snakes, but for the atoral is just fish."

"Work on the animagus transformation. I need to know for sure. Then I can begin to tackle the problem of lycanthropy. I don't want to spend years chasing the wrong question. Even if I find an answer it won't matter if it isn't the right problem. There is more as well. Given the nature of what happened. The basilisk bit you. You should have died immediately. And of more concern is that the venom can destroy the soul, which is why Dumbledore used it on the horcruxes he found. You didn't die, and your soul is intact and undamaged."

"Fawkes came." Harry explained. "He was Dumbledore's phoenix. He cried on the wound to heal it." He had always wondered what became of the bird. With Dumbledore's death, the phoenix had vanished.

"Be that as it may, you were a child, and a small malnourished one at that; the venom should have killed you damn near instantly. There would have been no time to receive healing from the bird. Although if it sang to you, the magic of its song could have shielded your soul."

"So I should be dead." Harry reasoned. "But I'm not."

"So therefore there is something at play which we do not yet understand. Do you see why I must be sure? I need to know if it was the magic of the basilisk passing into you that protected you from the venom, or if it was something else." He paused. "It's also worth mentioning that a chip of the basilisk's fang is imbedded in the bone of your arm. The magic in the fang still works, and it has converted some of your blood plasma into an analogue of basilisk venom. The magic of the fang mingled with your own magic, so the effect is now present in your bone marrow. Removing the fang chip will not solve the issue."

Harry was at a loss for words.

"The phoenix tears may have cured the venom initially, but their potency faded with time. Or maybe the venom just figured out how to kill the magic in the tears. Basilisk venom is adaptive, and almost alive in how it attacks things. It doesn't just work on living things; it relentlessly assaults any magic it touches, breaking it down and eventually killing it. Cursebreakers use it to breach wards that they otherwise can't circumvent, because there is nothing except phoenix tears that can stop it. But in you, things happened differently. As the venom in your blood became stronger, your body built a resistance to it, adapting itself to the venom. It took probably five or six years before your blood became potent enough to be lethal."

Ansgar laughed at something he just realized.

"It had another effect." He explained at Harry's questioning look. "The ritual Voldemort used for his resurrection in your fourth year involved your blood. He used your blood for a reason: he suspected what had happened and that you had inherited all of the unique magic that he had when he died. By using your blood he would have it again when he was reborn. But it had another unintended effect. His new body took on a hideous serpentine appearance! The basilisk magic in your blood tainted the ritual and mutated his new body. He expected to be reborn as the handsome and charismatic bastard he once was, but instead became just as deformed and monstrous as he acted. No nose or ears, and only slits to breathe through on the front of his face. No teeth except for a pair of fangs, and eyes that tended more towards the infrared than the visible spectrum. He was as much a creature at that point as a man. His followers detested him, but were too terrified to stand against him and were already bound to him through oath and mark. I think that was why he was so desperate to attain the metamorphmagus talent."

"How did you find all this out?" Harry asked, too shocked to be upset.

"I may have raided Riddle manor and stolen Voldemort's personal effects." He replied sheepishly. "For research purposes, of course."

"Of course." Harry muttered.

"You asked me to figure out why you no longer received any benefit from liquid luck. I took some blood samples. As I said, the basilisk venom adapts itself. The reason Felix Felicis is next to worthless for you now is that the venom attacks the potion in your body. I suppose it's actually quite staggeringly lucky that the potion isn't destroyed immediately on contact with your bloodstream, given how often you've taken it. But that's liquid luck for you. Healing potions will also start to lose effectiveness if you take them too often. So be careful that you don't use the same ones. Vary the potion and the potency when you can get away with it. The venom adapts, but not that quickly, and it can be tricked into forgetting how to kill something."

"Alright, so I'll work on my animagus form and get back to you." Harry agreed, walking to the door.

"I need Flamel's journals. Dumbledore would have inherited them. I checked the ministry records." Ansgar told him. "Alchemy might be the solution to separate the wolf from the man. And get me Dumbledore's things while you're at it."

"I'll see if I can find them. Voldemort ransacked the headmaster's office at Hogwarts. There wasn't much left." He turned to leave.

"What about the snake?" Ansgar asked. "Are you just going to leave it here?"

"He can stay with you." Harry replied with a grin. "You need someone to look after you." He told the sputtering doctor. §Keep him company for me.§ Harry told the snake. §He doesn't take very good care of himself anymore.§

§I'll make sure he behaves.§ The snake hissed in reply.

* * *

Harry took himself to the forbidden forest. It was isolated from anyone who might seek him out, and protected by Hogwart's wards. The magic of the wards chimed an acceptance of his presence. It was not unlike the comfort his own magic gave him. He relished it, the feeling of being welcome, of coming home. He sighed and set about working on his meditation. The book predated the potion which forced a trance and revealed the spirit animal, but the book had been a working method for thousands of years. The potion was clearly not needed, and given that it was unlikely to work, due to his blood venom problem, he decided to follow the meditations instead. He concentrated. Stilled his muscles, closed his eyes, and steadied his breathing. His magic settled about him, a comforting blanket. He didn't feel the damp morning air anymore, or hear the breeze through the trees. It was quiet, still, and tranquil.

Another breath, in and out; focus and contemplation. He concentrated on looking into himself, breathing in, finding the connection that linked him with the animal spirit, breathing out, following it back to the animal. Harry heard chirping, then a hiss and a screech. He opened his eyes and found he was no longer in the forbidden forest. It was still a forest, but the trees were indistinct and felt far away. He was in a clearing, lit by an unseen sun that was hidden by the darkly overcast sky. There wasn't any rain, but it felt not far off. There was a small grassy hill slightly offset from the center of the clearing, with large gray rocks breaching upwards from the ground on the steep side of the incline. A small pool of shallow water sat against the base of the hill, fed by a spring that flowed between a crack in one of the rocks. A solitary tree, not very tall but with many low branches, dug its roots into the soft mud near the water's edge. Within the taller grass at the top of the hill, snake and a bird fought one another.

The bird was large for a bird, and so dark it was almost black. It stood at nearly the size of a large eagle, but it was as indistinct as the trees around it. The snake was also quite large, almost twelve feet long, with the same black color to its scales as the bird had in its feathers. The snake was also indistinct. Harry couldn't seem to focus on it without it becoming blurry. The snake struck at the bird, and the bird swiped at the snake, each oblivious to his presence. He strode forward, intending to separate the two. The bird flapped its wings and scraped talons on the ground, trilling at the snake. The snake hissed and coiled about itself, readying to strike.

Harry stepped between the two just as they attacked. The bird gave an indignant squawk and fell back, but the snake sank its fangs into his arm. He winced, looking at the snake, and where it bit him. It was still latched on, pumping its venom into him. It was the same spot the basilisk had bit him, all those years ago. Coincidence? He stared at the snake, fighting the hazy indistinctness that prevented him from seeing. It faded, and he saw the basilisk for what it was. Black scales, and bright green serpentine eyes. Well, he wasn't dead from looking at it. That was a plus.

§Let go.§ He hissed at it. The snake immediately withdrew in shock. His arm began to go numb, and he glanced at it. Black venom bled out of twin wounds. He turned to the bird, already knowing what to expect; a phoenix, black feathers and bright green eyes. "Would you mind?" He asked it, holding out his arm. The bird trilled once and pressed its head against the wound, crying on it. Symbolism. Magic was about intention. "No more fighting." He told the bird. §Don't fight anymore.§ He hissed. The snake seemed ashamed that it had bit him, but he coaxed it over and it coiled about him contentedly. The bird flapped its wings twice and was airborne. After gliding around the clearing once it landed on his shoulder and trilled happily.

Another shape prowled near the edge of the clearing. Stalking back and forth, watching them. Harry tried to focus on it, but it was too hazy to make out. Finally he gave up and focused on the two animals that had settled into his company. The basilisk watched him carefully, its slitted eyes glowing green with power, but the gaze did not harm him. The phoenix nuzzled against the side of his face, rubbing its head against him, and trilling happily. The sound sent tingling warmth through him, and he sighed appreciatively. Harry sat there for what seemed like hours, content to enjoy the company of both animals. The shadow at the edge of the clearing finally stopped stalking, and yipped at him.

He looked up, watching as it gingerly stepped forward, the haze around it receding. It was a small fox. A _normal_ looking fox, except that its fur was a soft white, and its eyes were a ghostly violet. Could it be an albino? It appeared to be totally nonmagical, but the coloring confused him. Although after he thought about it, he couldn't recall any of the animal forms of any of the animagus he knew that had such distinctly matching coloration as the basilisk and phoenix had with him. He held his hand out to it and it raced forward, eager for his affections.

The phoenix and the basilisk tensed around him, as though fearful of the new arrival. It was silly, that these magical creatures would be intimidated by the cute and playful animal. It was obviously not full grown. Which was another oddity, since Harry was almost twenty-one, any animagus form he had should reflect that he was an adult human. The fox's fur was so fluffy and soft it was like petting something barely more tangible than clouds. The phoenix butted its head against his hair, and the basilisk tightened around his waist, reminding him not to forget them. Maybe they were jealous that he was paying it more attention than them? Harry laughed softly at the thought. He spared them a few pets while he played with the fox, rubbing its belly and petting it. The basilisk wrapped more tightly around his waist and stuck its head inside the front of his robe, while the phoenix sat silently on his shoulder.

The vision ended and he found himself back in the forbidden forest in the real world. It was late evening. At least fifteen hours since he started. His magic hummed at him as he stretched, still wrapped about him like a blanket. He curled his fingers on the silky texture and smiled. "Thanks for watching out for me." He said aloud. His magic surged happily, and he felt the backwash of its love.

* * *

Three weeks had gone by. And every day, without fail, Harry practiced his meditation. He returned to the clearing in his mind, and spent time with the phoenix, the basilisk, and sometimes the fox. The fox was more elusive than the other two, and not always willing to meet him when he came. He played with them, talked to them, and tried to tap into the bond between them. Interestingly, the snake never talked back when he spoke to it in parseltongue. It definitely understood him, but seemed unable to respond in kind. Maybe it was because it wasn't a real snake? Could spirit snakes not talk? He had no answer, but he didn't mind. It was actually fun, and more than a little relaxing.

Ansgar had only muttered obscenities when Harry told him about his triple animagi spirits. He could never be certain now that his theory was true. The phoenix might have already been within him, waiting to be born, and was a perfectly valid reason for why the basilisk venom didn't immediately kill him. It also may have been transferred over alongside the basilisk. The phoenix hadn't died, so the magic of the phoenix wasn't being reborn, but it was present when the transfer happened and might have been caught up in the maelstrom of magic. It would remain a mystery for now. Harry would have been meditating today, but he had received an urgent request from Ansgar to meet with him, so he went to the doctor's lab instead. It was mostly unchanged, except that there were more books on his desk, and a large heat-lamp was added in the corner for the snake.

"Finally here." Ansgar said.

"When I got your call last night, I had the impression it could wait until morning." Harry replied. "So what did you find this time?"

"Everything!" He practically danced. "I found everything! Dumbledore had a log book, of sorts, a record of expenses for the school. But it was really a disguise for his journal! I have the man's mind on paper. His thoughts, regrets, intentions, _everything!_ And let me tell you, that man was easily as smart as me. I wish I had the chance to meet him."

"How did you figure out his journal?" Harry asked.

"This!" Ansgar said, holding up a magnifying glass. Harry leaned forward to look at it, and through it, and was so startled he took a step back. The glass drained the color from everything seen through it, but showed the threads of magic as glowing strands of color against the black and white backdrop. "It was in Flamel's things." He explained. "Quite handy, that. I've never seen anything like it, and I have absolutely no idea how he made it. There aren't any runes, and looking through a mirror doesn't work, so I can't use it to look at itself. According to his notes, he named it the Magicka Ocularis. I believe he created the glass through his alchemy, because the frame is just cheap metalwork, but the glass is absolutely perfect. Everything you look at is always in focus."

"And how did you remove the charm?"

"I've been maintaining a correspondence with Master Snape. He was kind enough to stop by yesterday. Using the Ocularis, I was able to direct him in the removal of the charms. The journal would have destroyed itself if they weren't bypassed correctly."

"But Snape hates you." Harry said in disbelief. "He said he never wanted anything to do with the 'mad-muggle' ever again."

"We've come to a professional understanding with one another. We can respect each other's intelligence if nothing else." Ansgar wore his mischievous smile, the one he reserved for when he had some great secret to reveal. "Besides, I figured out how to remove the curse that ruined his hair. You know it was actually your mother that cursed him? They had a falling out when he said something unrepeatable to her and in her shock and fury her magic lashed out at him."

Harry looked at him, waiting for him to crack a laugh and tell him he was joking. Ansgar only grinned silently. "You're joking, of course?" Ansgar met his eyes with total confidence. "Oh my, you aren't joking." Harry didn't know whether he should laugh or cry. Snape had been the greasy git for as long as he could remember. If he wasn't greasy anymore, he just wasn't the same Snape. He started giggling, and it turned into a full laugh, reverberating deep in his chest. His magic was thrilled that he was happy, and promptly celebrated with him, humming joyously.

"Of course, as interesting as that is, it isn't why I called you."

Harry forced himself to settle down. His magic playfully tried to tickle him, wanting him to laugh more. He ignored it except for the occasional smirk of a repressed laugh. "So what did you find in the journal?"

"I haven't really begun to read through Dumbledore's things. I started there, but one of the earliest entries concerning Flamel caught my interest and I shifted over to his notebooks. I trust you remember Nicolas Flamel as being the alchemist who invented the Philosopher's Stone?"

"Yes." Harry nodded. He definitely remembered that.

"What do you know about his wife?"

"Uhh." He wracked his brain. His magic helpfully stopped trying to tickle him. "I guess I don't really. If it came up in my first year, I certainly don't remember her being mentioned."

"Well, according to history, his wife Perenelle lived alongside him for the last six hundred years. He loved her and he used the stone to keep them both alive."

"Okay." Harry said, not seeing the direction this was going.

"According to Nicolas's notes, she died before he finished the stone."

"What?"

"He has two notebooks. They are _exactly_ identical books. Some of the heaviest charms for preservation and right of ownership I've ever seen. The pages are watermarked from the parchment making process. Every page in the book has an exact mirror in the other. Even the stiches on the binding are the same."

"What does that mean? He magically copied the book?"

"No. The first book was with him for his original lifetime, and he brought it back with him when he went into the past to save his wife. From then on he had two notebooks."

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"Yes. Nicolas Flamel altered history, saving the woman he loved."

It took Harry a full minute to let the impact of that realization sink in. Even then, he almost didn't dare to believe it. It had to be a trick, some lie to get his hopes up. But it was Ansgar Gottschalk who told him: the man who had never once broken his trust, who was the most skeptical and rational person he had ever met, and one of the people who had as much reason to want this as he did. It was after five minutes of silence that Harry finally spoke. "Can we do it?"

"I don't know." Ansgar replied. "There is a lot of stuff that he only kept in his head. And apparently the Dumbledore from the first timeline helped him to figure out how to do it, which is why Flamel went through such great lengths to maintain their friendship in the second timeline. The Dumbledore you knew wasn't the same. In the first timeline, Flamel took Dumbledore as an apprentice just after he finished Hogwarts. They worked towards this for almost eighty years. And Flamel didn't bring anything of Dumbledore's back with him."

"So we have a lot of work to do." Harry nodded. "I'm still young. If this takes eighty years, then so be it. Show me what I can do to help."


	2. Chapter 2

**_Author's Note: _****_It should be obvious, but I must declare that I own no rights to the Harry Potter story or any of its characters. All such ownership belongs to J. K. Rowling. Only characters of my own creation are not hers, and I reserve no rights upon them, so if they catch your fancy feel free to use them._**

* * *

Chapter Two:

"Well _that's_ interesting." Ansgar said.

"What?" Harry asked. It had been months. His twenty-first birthday had come and gone. It was late August, and the grand reopening of Hogwarts was only a week away. Harry and Ansgar had put in ten or more hours every day towards deciphering the complex magic that Flamel had tapped to make his trip to the past. They had become reclusive. An occasional visit from Snape had been their only outside contact.

"I'm reading Dumbledore's journal." He elaborated. "Did you ever wonder why he insisted on sending you back to your Aunt's house every year?"

"At first I thought he didn't know about the abuse, but later I realized it was obvious. I don't know. For the longest time I hated him for it. Now I just wish to forget about my relatives."

"Well, he did know, and he did take steps to mitigate their actions, but he couldn't stop them completely, and he didn't _dare_ to take you from their home."

"Why? Was I really under threat? Why were blood wards necessary? A lot of other wards would have kept me safe, and could have been put up anywhere, even another muggle home. The muggle foster system would have been a better place for me than the Dursleys."

"The horcrux." Ansgar explained. "He knew what had happened, the moment he saw you in Godric's Hollow. He almost killed you, back then, to destroy the horcrux. He didn't know there were others, and he was certain that Voldemort had survived because of the one that was in your head. He thought that killing you would have destroyed Voldemort. But he spared you instead, trusting in the prophecy to ensure that you would eventually destroy Voldemort. But you were only a baby, and the horcrux was already growing stronger. So he put up the blood wards, which required your Aunt's _willing_ acceptance of you into her home to seal the wards. It couldn't be coerced, and it had to be her, because blood wards are the only magic that could protect your soul from being devoured by that parasite."

"I am related to the Blacks. The Tonks family could have taken me."

"They aren't related closely enough. And not on your mother's side of the family." Ansgar countered. "It might have been possible with a blood adoption into the Black family, but only the head of house could have done such a thing. Ted Tonks couldn't have done it, because he isn't a Black by blood. There was also a significant amount of pressure from the ministry to have you placed with one of them for political purposes. Barty Crouch wanted to be minister, and adopting you would have given him the boost he needed to make it happen. Cornelius Fudge was Minister Bagnold's handpicked successor, and was another one seeking to control your placement, if only to prevent Crouch from getting you. Even if Dumbledore had convinced them of the need for you to be placed with a family, the Tonks are not well connected or affluent. The Malfoys, however, are. And they are just as closely related through Narcissa Malfoy née Black. They would most likely have been the ministry's choice."

Harry shuddered at the thought.

"The blood wards were necessary to prevent the horcrux from killing you. Voldemort was the most powerful wizard in the world. He feared Dumbledore's knowledge, but he was without a doubt the stronger of the two. As a baby you would have stood no chance at all. Until you were much older and your magical core stabilized enough to defend against the parasite, you needed the blood wards to protect you. And that doesn't happen until around the time that you turn seventeen. You couldn't have left the safety of the wards for more than a few days when you were a baby. Not without risking running the risk of Voldemort possessing you. That was why he had so many tracking devices keyed to you. In case Voldemort got you and Dumbledore had to find and kill you. Ruthless and morbid, but he felt it was necessary."

"If I had known-" Harry began, only to be cut off.

"What? You would have been happy to endure your Aunt's treatment and your Uncle's abuse? You were a child. Would you have wanted to know that there was a piece of the soul of the monster that killed your parents living in your head? That it might someday overpower you and possess you? Would you have second guessed your every action and decision, unsure of whether or not it was really yours or if it was actually the horcrux planting those thoughts in your head? I don't think you appreciate what he protected you from. Sometimes knowledge _can_ hurt."

Harry was silent, and his magic wrapped him in comforting warmth.

"I'm sorry. But I thought you should know that he didn't hate you. He hated himself for what he did to you and regretted every moment that there wasn't some other way to keep you safe. He spent the better part of a decade, right up until you came to Hogwarts, searching for a way to remove the horcrux so you could be free of it and your relatives. Your first year _was_ a setup. Voldemort can merge with the soul fragment from a horcrux to make himself stronger. It's actually one of the ways for him to come back to life; if become strong enough to possess another and supplant their soul with his own. Dumbledore was hoping that Voldemort would pull the horcrux out of you, and he could then step in to banish the wraith."

"_He knew!?_ And he allowed that monster to teach at Hogwarts?" Harry exclaimed. His magic thrummed tensely around him, responding to his anger.

"Hogwarts really is the safest place in the world, Harry. If a student had been threatened with deadly harm the castle would have responded. She protects her students, Harry. Any deadly curses thrown within the school would have a wall of stone suddenly appearing to block them and the caster would find themselves likewise confined by stone. Dumbledore trusted the blood wards to keep you from being possessed, and he had a backup plan, for if you declined to stop Voldemort. The Mirror of Erised drains the magic from any who look into it. The longer you stare, the more it takes. It's an obscure artifact that is insidious in nature, but the perfect trap for Voldemort. Even as a wraith, he would have been drained, and if he became weak enough, Dumbledore could imprison him and interrogate him on his knowledge of horcruxes. The mirror room was warded like you wouldn't believe." Ansgar sighed. "I know it's poor consolation. But he did love you, in his own way. It hurt him to mislead you into confronting Voldemort, and to leave you with your relatives."

"Sometimes you have to choose, between doing what is easy and doing what is right." Harry said with a sigh. "He said that to me, once. I always thought he was talking about my destiny to fight Voldemort. I didn't consider that he might have been talking about himself and his decision to spare me and to leave me with my aunt." Harry stood up, closing the notebook he was reading. "I'm going to go train for the rest of the day. Maybe I'll finally unlock the transformation."

Ansgar watched him leave before wiping his tired eyes. The wetness on his fingers was ignored, and he went back to work. If they succeeded, all that they had suffered would not be in vain. He could save his daughter and his wife. They could save them all.

* * *

Snape visited them the next day, looking grim. Harry still had to remind himself that the man was, indeed, Snape. He looked so different, with his silky straight hair tied back in a ponytail, instead of matted about his face in an unruly mess. "Have either of you read the _Daily Prophet_ in the last fortnight?" He asked.

They both shook their heads. "What happened?" Harry asked. In response, Snape threw a copy of the newspaper on the table. Ansgar snatched it up and started reading. "How have you been?" Harry asked Snape, content to wait for Ansgar to summarize the news.

"I've been avoiding murderous mobs for the last nine days." He replied evenly.

Harry blinked. "What the hell?" He asked. "Why would you be mobbed?"

Ansgar set the paper down, sinking into his chair as though fighting off a sudden and depressing weight. "Because Voldemort has killed us all." He answered.

"I feel very much alive, thank you." Harry replied. He felt his magic tense up, however. He reached out to it, trying to sense it with his mind. It immediately cuddled against him, trying to comfort him even as he did the same for it. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Snape pulled a chair from the desk to join them at the table, conjuring three glasses and summoning a bottle of Rioja Imperial from Ansgar's wine cabinet. "Before the Dark Lord died, he and his Death Eaters performed a ritual that placed a binding on everyone of impure blood. Nobody knows exactly what they did, but the results speak for themselves." Snape explained. "The muggle governments were the first to realize something was wrong. They asked for our help through the muggle liaison office, and were ignored for several weeks. Then they actually threatened the new minister of magic. The government met with them after that, even if everyone thought it was some kind of joke. But it wasn't. It turns out there have been no pregnancies in six months. Every muggle is sterile. That that got our attention fast enough. The ministry decided to do their own tests, and apparently it isn't just the muggles who are affected; so is every magical they tested so far. Even the ones from supposedly pure bloodlines."

"Bloody hell!" Harry said.

"The muggle government kept it quiet for as long as they could, but the news broke two weeks ago. The magical government kept it hushed up for another five days, while they investigated possible causes. Then people got suspicious, and started questioning the Death Eaters. Most of them knew nothing. Even the ones that did know bits and pieces didn't know the whole of it. But apparently the ritual the Dark Lord performed is responsible. He used the ritual to bind everyone with a trace of muggle blood. He intended for it to affect any non-pureblood wizard. He also used the same ritual to attack some of the other sentient magical races. The goblins were targeted, among others."

"He has doomed the human race to extinction in a single generation." Ansgar said, furious. "The rank stupidity of that man!" He took the glass of wine Snape offered and downed it in a single motion. Harry took the one he was offered, but only stared at it forlornly. Ansgar continued his rant. "The idea of a muggleborn is completely flawed. Almost every single witch or wizard born to muggle parents is actually the descendant of a squib line or offshoot of a magical family. The magic that was dormant in their bloodline is merely rekindled. Rekindled magic is stronger than magic kept pure, and a cross of the two is stronger still."

"A half blood." Snape smirked. "I always thought blood purity was nonsense." It was telling of how much Snape changed that he implicitly trusted Ansgar's conclusions.

"Like Voldemort and myself." Harry said. He glanced at Snape. "You too, then. So there is no such thing as a muggleborn?" Harry asked, looking to Ansgar.

"All I have are second and third sources, but yes, it appears that there are true muggleborns." Ansgar explained. "Magic sometimes just chooses a mundane fetus and bonds with it. Why or how I don't yet know; the magic just… appears. There also isn't really any example of a muggle without at least a trace amount of magic. Magic is present everywhere to some degree. A Greek wizard a few centuries ago defined a scale for measuring magic; muggles are between zero and one. Most muggles fit in the lower end, but squibs are on the high range, up to zero point nine or so. Ambient magic from the environment affects this number, and most old wizarding families live on magical lay lines or nexuses, which tend to make them magically stronger after several generations. Hogwarts is built on a very large nexus, where almost a dozen lay lines cross. Students who attend there are exposed to an absolutely massive amount of ambient magic, and it definitely impacts the magical strength they have upon reaching their maturity. It's why it's a boarding school, in spite of the ease with which magic would allow students to return home."

"I didn't know that." Harry said. "So anyone who is a one or higher on the scale can use magic?" He asked. "That doesn't really make sense, though. Why wouldn't someone who is only a tenth of a point away be able to work magic, but someone who crosses that arbitrary line be able to? Are you sure that's how magic works? It would seem to me that either someone has it or they don't, and while I concede that some people are stronger than others, I can't really see degrees of having magic."

"Yes, I'm sure." Ansgar replied dryly.

"He was the same in class." Snape sneered, happy that another instructor had to put up with Harry's insolence for once. "Never satisfied with an answer; always questioning."

Ansgar shook his head and quoted. "Follow those who seek truth, be skeptical of those who have found it." He grinned at Snape. "You can't learn if you don't understand, and you can't understand without asking questions."

"You spoil him with all your explanations." Snape sighed.

Ansgar only smiled wider before turning back to Harry. "How dense does a cloud of stellar matter have to be before it ignites into a star? Admittedly there is a threshold present, where the star can smolder without burning, but on the scales of stars it's relatively small. So it is with magic. Once a certain point is reached, the magic that saturates the body condenses into a core, and a wizard or witch is born. After that point, the core goes through several stages of maturity, absorbing ambient magic and expanding. At one, three, seven, eleven, thirteen, seventeen, nineteen, and twenty-three years of age the core matures. That's why most accidental magic occurs after the child is three years old, and why they don't send out school invitations until the child is eleven, and why the age of adulthood in the wizarding world is seventeen. So although you need to be at least a one on the scale to be magical, no adult magical would ever be so impotent. Keeping in mind that this scale is non-linear, with each whole number designating ten times more power than the previous, the average wizard scores between five point two and six point one, while the average witch scores between four point eight and five point nine."

"So magic is bias in favor of wizards over witches?" Harry asked.

"On the average, yes." Ansgar said. "But there are always exceptions. McGonagall was a six point five. Dumbledore measured an impressive seven point four; almost a hundred times stronger than an average wizard. I don't know where you measured, and since I can't perform the test without magic and you don't have any to test anymore, we'll never know. The simple fact is that a child cannot hope to measure up against a mature adult in terms of magical strength."

Snape decided to comment. "Which is why it was a miracle you survived all of your stupidity during your schooling. And why nobody expected you to come out of the triwizard tournament alive. There was a reason the age of entry was seventeen. I doubt even the Dark Lord knew for certain you would make it through the tasks, not that he would be disappointed if you had died. But while this is undoubtedly interesting, it does nothing to solve the problem at hand!"

"But it explains why it doesn't really matter. If the presence or absence of magic can even be considered a factor for difference, it isn't through lineage. Every human, magical and mundane, remain the same species. Mundanes and magicals wouldn't be able to have children otherwise. Some people just have magic, and it isn't determined by genetics. Although magical parents almost ensure a magical child, it is because the presence of a parent's magic quickens the magic in the child and it saturates the fetus with magic in the womb. If you go back far enough in any pureblood family tree, you find a muggleborn at the source. Every witch and wizard is descended from a mundane born magical at some point in the past."

"Bloody hell." Harry said softly.

"It is possible for a muggleborn to occur if a family lived in a magically saturated area for tens of generations, but obviously it isn't likely. Despite the odds, however, there are real instances of mundane born magicals occurring spontaneously. In the case of these true muggleborns -and I mean do mean real muggleborns, not merely rekindled squib lines- magic itself _chooses_ them. They are infused with magic and are changed by it. These mundane born magicals have an innate grasp of magic, and magic is quite literally their birthright. They are often stronger than any other in using it. The last confirmed true muggleborn was Merlin, though I have my suspicions about your schoolmate and your mother." Ansgar said, with a pointed look at Harry.

Harry shrugged.

Ansgar sighed, and then filled his glass again, sipping it with more reservation this time. "This is bad." He said. "There is no witch or wizard that won't be affected. There is mundane blood in _every_ bloodline."

"It's even worse." Snape said. "Apparently we are slowly losing our magic as well."

"Not unexpected." Ansgar replied. "If killing off the lycans was enough for magic to punish humanity by turning the hunters into werewolves, killing off multiple sentient races is probably enough for magic to just abandon us entirely. It passed judgment and found us wanting."

Harry shook his head, at a loss for words.

Snape continued to explain what had happened. "They thought at first that magic itself was getting weaker, but that was disproven quickly. They discovered that it was instead the witches and wizards that were losing their magic. Their magical cores are replenishing much more slowly, and will soon stop altogether. Whatever magic they have left to call upon at that point is all they will retain."

"I bet that went over well." Harry spat sarcastically.

"Things are deteriorating rather quickly." Snape agreed. "The magical governments have maintained order, for now, by promising people that they are taking every possible course of action to deal with the ramifications, while they research a cure to this mysterious ailment. Losing their magic wasn't enough of a punishment for the Dark Lord's followers after this became public knowledge. Every Death Eater that is still marked has either fled for their lives or died by mob brutality. Families that have been known to support pureblood agendas in the past, even if they were neutral in the last war, are being attacked. Even though I was spared losing my magic and the mark was removed, I still get mobbed if I'm recognized. It's become total anarchy. I took a broom to get here just to avoid wasting my magic on apparition."

"I haven't found anything in Voldemort's notes to suggest that he was planning this." Ansgar said, hurrying over to where the pilfered records were stored. "There was certainly no mention of any ritual, dark or otherwise, that could affect the whole world. That is some scary powerful magic."

"You have his notes?" Snape asked, surprised.

"I stole them the night after the last battle." Ansgar replied, finding what he was looking for and opening the journal to skim through the pages. "It was too much of an opportunity to let it pass. Voldemort had been collecting magical knowledge for better than half of a century."

Snape got up to join him and began to look through the disorganized pile that was all that remained of the Dark Lord's research. "I shouldn't be shocked. You're more magic greedy than most wizards."

While they searched for answers, Harry silently fumed. So Voldemort had won in the end? If every witch and wizard lost their magic, then how would they go back in time to stop Voldemort? It wasn't fair. After all he had done and sacrificed. After all his friends died so he could succeed, he still failed! He couldn't win for losing. He wondered if his magic would leave him, too. He reached out again for it, desperately grasping at it. It came to him and he held it close, begging it not to leave.

_Still here._ His magic answered. _Always be here. Never alone again. Promised. Won't leave._ It sang, reminding him of the vow it made when he first freed it. He sighed and sank into the feeling of warmth and love that it wrapped around him. Without the constant comfort his magic gave him, he was sure he would have fallen into an irreversible depression. Some days, when he couldn't stop thinking about his friends, when he was all but consumed by the grief of losing them, the unconditional love of his magic was all that kept him from suicide. _Stop bad thoughts._ His magic urged. He sighed and took his first sip of the wine.

"My magic won't be affected." Harry said. Both of his mentors stopped to stare at him.

"Of course it won't." Snape snapped. "You haven't got any anymore! You're a squib now! And soon enough I'll be joining you in being a squib." He said angrily. Snape loved being a wizard. It was how he defined himself. Losing his magic would destroy him, he was certain.

Ansgar looked at Harry, before sighing. "That isn't what he means." He told Snape. "He's saying there's still a chance of us pulling this off, even if everyone else loses their magic, he can still call on his to send him back, provided we figure out how to do it. His magic is free, so it makes its own choices. It never really left him, even if it now has a mind and a will of its own. It's actually quite infatuated with him, and does almost anything he asks."

Harry fell silent, picking up the newspaper to read the article for himself.

"Then as much as I think your idea is stupidity itself, I shall do everything I can to help." Snape promised. "But we need a plan. Assuming we can pull this off, what will you do when you arrive in the past? How will you convince the people that need convincing to do what we need them to do? We need backup plans, and contingencies for every possible ramification."

Ansgar nodded. "We still don't know how it will work. According to Flamel's notes, the timeline works to correct itself to prevent discrepancies."

"So the timeline can't be changed?" Snape asked. "What's the point then?"

"No. It definitely can be changed. His wife surviving when she otherwise would have died is proof enough of that. I think he means something else. Remember that there is a language barrier here. Old English and pre-renaissance French doesn't always come across clearly, and his notes are over six hundred years old. I think he means that paradoxes are actively opposed by the timeline. Something prevented his mere presence from causing damage. He never explained what happened to his younger self when he arrived back in time. Did he simply inhabit his younger body upon his arrival? Or was his younger self destroyed by him going back in time?"

Harry finished reading the paper, and a small notation near the bottom of the back page caught his attention. The Hogwarts reopening was canceled. He felt empty inside. As much as visiting his old school had hurt, with all of the memories of his friends still fresh after four years, he had wanted the school to reopen. He had been planning on taking the day off from their research to see the students arrive. He had always felt that Hogwarts was his home. His only real home, from the moment he had first been sorted. He always felt welcomed there, and now that he was sensitive to it, the magic was so bright and warm.

"Since we don't know, it makes it hard to plan." Snape agreed. "So we simply need to work harder at it and make plans for every possibility."

"If Harry goes back in time and finds himself still a child at his relatives, he won't have the resources to attack the problem before he goes to school, and a lot of options get closed. Similarly, if he arrives back as his adult self, we don't know if he will be able to access his family vaults, since there might be two of him, and the goblins will know that Harry Potter should not be of age."

"As you said, there are many variables." Snape agreed. "Though he will hopefully be able to take some materials with him. The existence of Flamel's original journal proves that it should be possible to take things with you. We need to bring more people in on this. To help us plan if nothing else. We need legal information and knowledge of the workings of Gringotts that only goblins will have. Unfortunately they are currently preparing to go to war with the rest of the world. They want to die as warriors or some such nonsense. It's complete madness, and damn near suicide to approach the bank right now." He sighed. "If we can discreetly let them know what we are hoping to accomplish, they might decide not to kill us. Given that they have been similarly affected by the Dark Lord's ritual, I suspect they will be more than willing to help, if we can overcome their murderous rage. But I won't be able to go with you. If I'm seen in Diagon Alley, I'll be mobbed by wizards and goblins alike."

"We can go in a few days. I'll send a letter first, to ask who we should speak with."

"As long as you're circumspect in what you write. Just because we need help doesn't mean we should blab our intentions to everyone." Snape advised.

* * *

Harry stood in the entrance hall, looking once again at the memorial he had built to his friends. He had intended that it should stand in this place, and everyone who passed through these halls would be faced with it, and remember those who sacrificed for them. Now it seemed that only he would see it, and only he would remember. How cruel was fate?

He felt a tug from the magic around him. It wasn't his own, which had settled itself calmly about him. It was the magic of Hogwarts, pulling at him. He slowly followed along, not really having anything better to do, and mildly curious about the situation. He was led up to the fourth floor and across the castle. Once he reached the abandoned section, he was guided through a series of passages that hadn't looked to be used in hundreds of years. Passing into an old classroom, with desks so old the wood had decayed to almost nothing, he followed the pull to the far wall. As he approached, the wall vanished, revealing a small square room with a trapdoor in the middle.

He opened the door and found a wooden ladder that receded into dark depths. The magic still urged him on, so he sighed and stepped onto the rungs, climbing down slowly. At least the ladder was preserved better than the desks. After he descended into darkness so thick he could no longer see the ladder, he begged his magic for some light. Instantly several balls of light appeared, two floating above and three hovering below him. He continued until he reached the bottom. At the end of the ladder, he found himself on the other side of a secret entrance, and was able to easily open it. He stepped into an empty corridor that hadn't seen a living soul in a very long time.

The five balls of light still floated around him. He reached out and grabbed one, then threw it down the hall. It sped away from him, revealing the stone arched entrances to classrooms whose wooden doors had long since disintegrated into nothing. Towards the end of the hall the ball reached a stairway leading up. It was sealed with massive stone blocks after less than ten steps. Whatever this part of the castle was, it was long forgotten. The main way to reach it had been literally blocked off and sealed, many hundreds of years ago. Only the secret passage allowed access, and even then Harry doubted he would have gotten in without Hogwart's solicitation.

The magic insistently pulled him further into the hall, away from the sealed entrance. He followed along dutifully. As he walked, magic stirred around him. Power that had lain dormant for far too long began to wake up. A recess in the walls, near the ceiling, suddenly burst with magical sunlight, filling the corridor. He came to a cross section in the hall, and although there were a few classrooms off to either side, the magic pulled him to his left. Straight ahead of him, at the end of the hall, was a door. Every other wooden object was long gone, but this door remained. As he approached, it clicked open, an invitation if he had ever seen one.

He stepped through the door, finding himself in what looked like a teacher's office. Black and yellow themed wall hangings suggested a Hufflepuff motif. There was a desk and a couple of chairs, along with a few bookcases and a cabinet with glassware. A fireplace in the corner was suddenly filled with flames, and a chill Harry hadn't really noticed began to recede from the room. Behind the desk, mounted on the wall, was a portrait of a matronly woman, sitting comfortably in a chair. Then the portrait spoke.

"Hello there, young man." She said.

"Hello." Harry replied. "Helga Hufflepuff?" He asked.

She nodded. "I am but her reflection."

"Did you call me here?"

"I asked the castle to guide you to me, as I have for every listener who has graced these halls." She said.

"Listener?" Harry asked. "I don't understand."

"You freed your magic without knowing? Oh my, but you are indeed Lily's son!" She said.

"You know who I am?" Harry asked, realization dawning. "You met my mother?"

"Indeed! She had become a listener before she even reached Hogwarts. Such a beautiful girl, she loved magic and it loved her. Though she had a hard time working spells with the rest of her year mates. Listeners can't work magic like witches and wizards can. And she was so stubborn about coming to see me. She was very shy and scared of getting lost in an unfamiliar place. It took her three months to work up the courage to follow my call."

Harry smirked at the thought. It made sense now, how his mother had saved him that night without performing the ritual to free her magic. She didn't need to. She had _already_ freed it. "Did she come see you often?" He asked.

"Almost every other weekend for her first year, and a few times a semester after that. She said goodbye for the last time just before she graduated. She spoke often of your father, though until her sixth year she had not really returned his interest in her. She did tell me about the war that was raging, and that her blood status made her a target. Truly, that you did not know of me and that you did not know what you became tells me that she did not live to teach you. She would not have neglected that. I am sorry for your loss."

Harry nodded acceptance. "She died to save me from a Dark Lord that had come to kill me. Her magic protected me from the killing curse, and returned it to him in full force." He said, rubbing is forehead where his scar used to be. "It happened before I was a year and a half old. The Dark Lord was defeated, but not dead. He had made horcruxes, which ensured his immortality. He was resurrected seven years ago, and all but took over the world."

"Surely you are not serious!" Helga exclaimed. "Why would a Dark Lord target a child?"

"I was prophesized to defeat him." Harry said with a shrug. "It wasn't just me: there was one other child the prophecy could have been referring to, but he came for me. That marked me as the one the prophecy anointed."

"I am so sorry. The magic that lingers here only knows so much. I was unaware of your plight, or I would have called you as soon as you entered Hogwarts." She seemed ashamed.

Harry shook his head. "Not knowing isn't your fault."

"Has the prophecy come to pass?" She asked.

"Yes, four months ago I defeated the Dark Lord Voldemort for the last time. But the damage is done. He has won."

"What do you mean?"

"He performed some sort of ritual which made every witch or wizard with even a trace of muggle blood sterile, and since he used muggle blood to catalyze the ritual, it affected the muggles as well. Every human is sterile, and no more children will be born. And magic retaliated by stripping every witch and wizard of their magic. I'm told it is too late to stop it. In less than a year, everyone will be a squib. His intention was for only the purebloods to survive to inherit the earth, never having realized that there was no such thing. His mark would have protected his followers, even those of impure bloodlines, but that protection ended when he died. He was naïve to believe such a thing as a pureblood existed."

"Such bigotry existed in my time as well." Helga said sadly. "But then not all wizards will be sterile. Even without their magic, they can survive. Surely not every pureblood family has gone extinct!"

"No, but none of them are now or ever were pure. If Ansgar understands things correctly, every pureblood family began with a muggleborn. Every. Single. One. Even if they've been around for a thousand generations. That means that they were _all_ affected by the ritual."

Helga seemed shocked by this information. "Such a thing was not known in my time, nor has anyone I've spoken with since had such knowledge." She paused in thought. "This is the end of our school, then." She said sadly. "The students won't be returning, will they?"

Harry shook his head. "I'm afraid not. But we aren't going quietly."

She looked up, meeting his gaze firmly. "I hope you aren't going to do anything that would bring hurt to innocents. I understand being angry with the one responsible. But you said he was already defeated. There is no cause for further suffering."

"You misinterpret my words." Harry said. "I only mean that we are going to try something stupidly dangerous and insanely foolish to try and fix things."

"Oh." She said smartly. "Well then my apologies for my outburst. It was uncalled for."

"Accepted." Harry replied with a smirk.

"So what are you going to do? I thought you said it was irreversible?"

"Well you see," Harry began. "The plan is to send me back in time…"

* * *

"Explain to me again why we're trudging through the Scottish highlands a hundred miles northeast of Hogwarts." Snape demanded.

Harry sighed. "We're looking for Godric Gryffindor's safehouse. I'll tell you more when we get there." He said cryptically. They had flown here on broomsticks, but the compass indicated that they were getting close, so Harry had them land and go forward on foot. Helga's portrait had spoken words in a dead language that unlocked magical seal on the chest next to her desk, and directed Harry to take the compass from it, telling him to go to Godric's Hovel, which had been made into a safehouse of sorts for the founders before Hogwarts was completed.

"I don't see how this is going to help us." Snape complained.

Harry didn't really know either, so he kept silent. He trusted Helga not to lead them wrongly.

"I'm excited for the chance to see artifacts of the founders!" Ansgar said. "And who knows, there might be books that help us figure out how to make Flamel's temporal alchemy work."

"Is that what we're calling it now?" Harry asked.

"That's basically what it is. We've figured out most of his diagrams. It's alchemy that works on time. There is a lot we still don't understand-"

Snape sighed derisively. "Some of us will _never_ understand." Harry thought about the many ways that statement could be interpreted and decided not to ask for clarification.

Ansgar grinned. "Well I can still hope." He said, choosing not to be offended. "I think it's worth the effort. Even if we get nothing out of it, the trip only cost us a day."

"We're here." Harry said. The ground was rocky, but had a sparse covering of green grass. They were in the midst of a clump of hills, with bright gray rocks jutting out here and there. Harry carefully stepped forward, holding the compass out in front of him. He felt the compass breach the ward and the magic of it wash over him judgmentally. His own magic rose up as if to attack the wardmagic before both settled down. A field half a mile wide seemed to grow between two stony hills. A shallow stone wall surrounded the field, brimming with magic. Before them was a gap in the wall where a dirt path led through, a wooden gate baring access. He turned back to his companions. "Coming?" He asked, moving down the path.

"That was like the fidelius charm, wasn't it?" Ansgar asked.

Snape nodded. "It was shockingly similar to the effect, but the fidelius wasn't invented during the founder's time, so it must be something that predates it.

The gate swung open freely as soon as Harry touched it, and the three of them walked up the path to the house. Godric's Hovel lived up to its name with its outside appearance. It looked like little more than a rundown cottage. The foundation was stone, with wooden walls and a thatch roof. But contrary to the physical appearance, Harry could feel that the building positively _glowed_ with magic. Harry approached the door, which was slanted slightly askew from a loose hinge, and instead of reaching for the handle, knocked. He stepped back and waited.

"You expect someone to be here?" Snape asked. "We have to be the first visitors in eight hundred years." He mentally began to count backwards from ten, vowing that if he reached zero he would turn around and leave the two of them to their foolish errand.

The door shuddered and seemed to snap back into its proper position, even as the rest of the cottage buzzed with magic. In the time it took Snape to reach four, Godric's Hovel had completely repaired itself. The door opened smoothly, leading to a well-lit parlor. Snape had the courtesy not to comment further.

Stepping inside, Harry looked around. Not finding what he was looking for, he gestured his companions inside and closed the door. "Godric!?" He called loudly. After waiting a moment, he continued. "Helga sent me. We're here to meet all four of you." Snape almost forgot his decision not to comment, given the stupidity of his former student expecting to find the founders whole and ready to host a tea party. He decided to wait.

A disillusioned portrait on the wall of the parlor suddenly became visible, revealing Godric Gryffindor, and making Snape glad he held his tongue. "Who are you?" The portrait asked.

"I am Harry Potter." Harry replied. "This is Severus Snape, and Ansgar Gottschalk." Harry introduced each of them in kind. "We're here to save the world." He said smoothly.

Godric chuckled heartily. "I like your bravado." He said. "But the portraits of the founders will only reveal themselves to those who have already found them."

"I've found you, because Helga led me here." Harry replied, holding up the compass as proof. "And I suspect that if I take a trip to the come and go room, as the house elves call it, or else the room of requirement, as the students refer to the place, I'll find Rowena. Salazar is probably in his chamber of secrets, the entrance of which is in the girl's lavatory on the second floor. The door is hidden amongst the sinks, open only to parselmouths." Harry explained. "I would be willing to go back and speak to each of you individually, but our need is quite urgent."

Godric nodded slowly. "I know you would have found Rowena, but as you say, Salazar can only be reached by a parselmouth. He would not speak to anyone else. He is stubborn."

Harry nodded. §Then it is a good thing that I can speak with snakes.§ He hissed. "I think I've got that covered." He said.

Godric smirked. "Alright, then. I'll go gather them up. Wait here; it shouldn't be more than a few minutes." He disappeared off his frame.

"I can't believe you didn't tell us you spoke with Helga's portrait." Snape said. "I would have been a lot more willing to put up with your nonsense if I had known you had planned to do more than loot a ruined hovel."

Harry shrugged. "She asked me not to tell."

* * *

Godric returned in less than five minutes. "Okay. We'll hear you out. Helga thinks this is really important, but I won't promise our help on just her word."

"Fair enough." Harry said.

A door to an adjourning room opened itself. "Step on through and have a seat."

Harry went through the door and entered what must have once been a dining room. The table was clear of anything that had once been used for eating food, and was instead covered in books and not a few scrolls and loose parchment. There were four chairs, set to one side of the table, with the other three sides empty. Hung on the wall of the room, opposite to the chairs, was a massive portrait, within which sat all four founders.

"Hello." Harry greeted them. "I'm Harry Potter, and this is Severus Snape, and Ansgar Gottschalk." He said, introducing his companions.

§Why do you bring two squibs?§ Salazar hissed, looking directly at Severus. He must have somehow known that only Severus had magic.

"The only squib is me." Harry replied normally. "The other is a muggle."

Salazar was so shocked that he only stared dumbly at Harry. §_You_ are my heir?§ He asked.

§Not exactly.§ Harry hissed.

§Yet you speak the serpents tongue.§ Salazar spat. §How can this be, if you are not of my get? You must be of my bloodline.§

"Ansgar can explain it better." Harry said.

Salazar's eyes narrowed. "And what would a filthy muggle know of magical heritage?" He turned to glare at Ansgar. "You lot are nothing more than superstitious fools, scared of anything different from yourselves! You are nothing, and you will amount to nothing!"

Snape and Harry shared a look, and Snape muttered under his breath. 'He's done it now.'

Ansgar met Salazar's glare unflinchingly. "There are, without a doubt, many fools, and many more who will amount to nothing. This is true of both magicals and mundanes. But even in your time, we had our philosophers, our aspiring thinkers. See, the difference, between magicals and mundanes, isn't in their potential. No, we both share the same potential; the same power. That potential is in our ability to acknowledge our faults, our failings, and our imperfections. By doing what we can to overcome them and improve ourselves we change who we are. That is our power. The _difference_ between our people is the willingness to use it! To make use of our abilities to affect change and tap into our potential! To reach what we think are our limits and refuse them, to exceed them, to strive always for a better future. We will harness magic as we have all the other forces of nature, and put its power towards that purpose!"

Ansgar spoke with such vehemence that Salazar was momentarily silenced. After several seconds, he replied. "Impossible! You are without reason. A person _cannot_ exceed their limits. You are a _muggle_ and you will _never_ have magic. You should accept your place in the world and be content with it."

"Allow me to quote a most famous philosopher, George Bernard Shaw. 'The reasonable man adapts himself to the world; the unreasonable man persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore all progress depends on the unreasonable man.' I cannot say that our society has always changed for the better. But we have made progress. I cannot say the same of yours. We are no longer so intolerant, nor are we ignorant. We have made great strides in improving the quality of life for everyone. If magical society wasn't full of such a bunch of ass-backwards bigots, I'm certain we could have achieved much more."

Now Salazar spat his words with contempt. "You have such wishful thinking. Muggles are incapable of accepting that which they don't understand. They would demand more and more from us until we were little more than slaves, answering whenever called to work our magic. I've seen the results of your kind of idealism before. It fails. It always fails. Because we are not equals! And no partnership can be sustained when one side holds all the power. When the muggles realize this, the reaction is always the same. They attack. They try to kill or enslave the magicals in their midst. Brothers and daughters, sisters and wives, husbands and sons, stripped from their families, if they were not already cast out. Because of fear! Because we can do what you cannot!"

"And yet there are many things that we can do which you can't."

Salazar laughed. "And what would they be?"

Ansgar grinned savagely, like a predator that had just cornered wounded prey. "Machines of _my own_ creation allowed for the construction of a rocket that could launch men beyond our world, carrying them into space. I was then part of the team that helped to design a new type of rocketship, the first true spaceship; a vehicle to carry men not only beyond the atmosphere of our terrestrial world, but across the empty vacuum of space. This ship traversed a distance of almost ten times the circumference of the Earth, for the crew to step foot on the surface of our moon. All of this accomplished without any magic at all!"

"Such a thing is surely impossible." Godric said, his disbelief evident.

"I assure you that it is true." Ansgar replied.

"I don't believe you." Salazar spat.

"The truth is not contingent upon your beliefs!" Ansgar said with equal vehemence.

Rowena snorted. "Logically true, but it does not dispel my own disbelief."

Ansgar nodded. "The world has changed so much in the last two centuries; it is hardly recognizable when compared to what it was in the time of our forefathers. I cannot imagine the difference it must seem to you, who last saw the world a thousand years ago. We who live without magic, who have no idea that it even exists, have found other ways to compensate."

"So muggles have conquered the stars themselves?" Godric asked.

"Not as much as I would wish. Other people improved and rethought the machines that I had a hand in creating, and these were then used to launch hundreds of probes to all parts of our solar system, to discover the nature of the planets and the sun, and to explore the multitude of moons and other objects, but mankind has largely given up the personal exploration of other worlds. It is a hardship to survive the journey, and comes at great cost to launch such expeditions. Maybe if we had been given a few more centuries we could have overcome such problems. I don't know. And I was never likely to live long enough to discover for myself." Ansgar replied with sadness.

Salazar did not miss the subtle inference that such a future was no longer possible. He was, despite himself, intrigued by the notion of visiting other worlds. What strange creatures inhabited them? What alien magics could be found there? But his curiosity was suppressed by the worry that he felt. What did Ansgar mean when he said they '_could have' _if_ 'given a few more centuries' _and what did it indicate? It implied that they had a finite amount of time. That wasn't a profound notion. Everyone was mortal, after all, but that didn't seem to be what he meant. His closing statement proved that he never expected to see success within his lifetime. This led to only one conclusion for the previous statement. Something would irrevocably prevent them from attempting further progress, and it left them with less than '_a few centuries_' remaining to act. More than that, it implied that there would be no one left to continue seeking their goal. It was a harrowing thought. Salazar had to know for certain.

"What other changes has the world seen? What else have you done without magic?" Rowena queried. She still had her doubts, but she wanted desperately to believe it was possible. Ever since she was a child she wished to touch the stars, to stand amongst them and see with her own eyes the earth below her. The thought that muggles had achieved what magic could not would have made her laugh an hour ago. Now it gave her a strange satisfaction. Even if she could not reach the stars herself, others had.

That wasn't the direction Salazar wanted the conversation to go. "What does it matter?" Salazar asked, hoping to goad another diatribe out of the muggle. "He is a muggle. Who cares about the legacy of muggles?" In truth, Salazar no longer doubted the man. But he would not be who he was if he did not attempt to control things. If he could get the man to talk about what he hoped to leave behind, he might be able to figure out what was destroying the possibility for a future. Merely asking never crossed his mind. Direct answers could be easily contrived, whereas conclusions based on what bits of information slipped through another's composure were much more reliable. Unless he was misreading the muggle and the man was actually a greater master of deception and cunning than he was himself.

"My work played a part in making it possible for other machines, called computers, to store and access the sum of all human knowledge and to communicate almost instantly with anyone on the network, anywhere on Earth." Ansgar faced Salazar. "My contributions to the world, before I even believed magic was real, have positively affected the lives of _billions_ of humans. That is _my_ legacy; the legacy of a muggle."

There was a soft gasp from Rowena at the word 'billions' that went mostly unnoticed. Salazar was, of course, the exception. The others knew the number and could work with it in math, and all of them could write it with Arabic numerals, but she alone amongst them understood the significance of it. She could grasp just how many people that meant, and how much of an increase that was from her time. And she began to accept that it was possible, that what he was saying was true; where at first she had only been humoring herself. With such a number of people, at least some of them would display abnormal levels of intelligence. This Ansgar Gottschalk never claimed to be the smartest of his peers, but he was clearly above average. Maybe he really had done all that he claimed.

"And that is only what Ihave personally contributed! And my lifetime is not yet over. In two years, I have done things with magic that you have believed impossible for _thousands_! And yet you magicals, in your _arrogance_, have locked yourselves out of all of the advancements within mundane society for _centuries_. Can you do better than I have? Even if you had spent your entire lifetime in pursuit of such a goal, could you hope to match me, let alone the rest of humanity?"

"Our school." Helga said. "That is our legacy; to enrich the lives of future generations, to teach them how to use their magic, and to provide a safe haven in times of trouble. Perhaps it did not achieve the same impact as your efforts, but it is a legacy worthy of our names!"

"Legacies go both ways. Your school has taught several Dark Lords, and given them access to knowledge that was available nowhere else in the world. By the same token, my own work was perverted, with my rocket designs being used to carry weapons instead of passengers. Weapons which could destroy entire cities. I pray they are never used." Ansgar said. "Be wary of what others may do with your legacy. I learned my lesson; the spells I've invented and the artifacts I'm crafting will not be allowed to fall into the wrong hands."

"Yet again you display your conceit, your own arrogance. Do you honestly believe that you know more about magic than a wizard!?" Salazar continued to goad.

"If the historical records of you do not embellish too much, then I should think I know quite a bit more than you did about magic. Or do now, rather." Ansgar replied, not holding back. "But it would help me to prove it if I knew what you were debating." He looked at Harry questioningly.

Salazar only glared at the impudent muggle, so Harry answered back. "He believes that I must be descended from him, since I am a parselmouth."

Ansgar only laughed. "Well, I can't say that you _aren't_ related to him. Not without a complete genealogy of both families. And while I have extensive research of yours, I found too many gaps and incomplete entries. The Potters liked to pick up strays. They had lots of adoptions, and usually married those within the family, keeping the Potter name. And they married muggleborns quite often, though I think most of those were really just rekindled from squib lines. And it would be impossible to trace all of those back to their original magical families. Nobody bothered to keep track of squibs and their descendants. Not even those magical tapestries that purebloods love to use to show off their bloodline bother with it."

"Then it is impossible to prove." Salazar smiled.

Ansgar shrugged. "But we do have strong circumstantial evidence that says he picked up the power when Voldemort died. And Voldemort _was_ your descendant. His family line _can_ be traced back to you."

Salazar was silent.

"How could that have happened?" Rowena entered the conversation. She had been following along quite keenly, having done research on bloodline magics during her life. She glanced curiously from Ansgar to Harry. "How could he have received Slytherin's bloodline magic from Voldemort?"

"Voldemort was performing some dark ritual to steal whatever bloodline magic a particular family had. He was killing off bloodlines left and right, hunting down those who had powerful bloodline magics and collecting their magic to make himself stronger. This only worked because magic can't be destroyed. If a unique magic exists, it won't disappear. If the last member of a bloodline that a unique magic is tied to dies out, the magic is just reborn in someone else, in a completely different bloodline. Voldemort found a way to interrupt this and take it for himself. He still had to kill off every member of the bloodline to do it, but he was enough of a maniac to succeed again and again."

"Wait." Harry said. "If that's how it works, then how could Voldemort have gotten Tonk's metamorphmagus power if Narcissa and Draco and myself all have black blood?" He asked.

"Narcissa Malfoy née Black and your grandmother, Dorea Potter née Black, were both subjected to a ritual before being married outside of the family, to prevent any bloodline magic from leaving the Black family. Bellatrix Lestrange née Black would have been the same, not that it mattered since she had no children." Ansgar explained.

Snape nodded. "It's actually why Andromeda was cast out of the family, because she was originally contracted to marry Lucius Malfoy, but hated him and eloped to marry Theodore Tonks instead. It was a huge political scandal for the House of Black. The penalty clauses in the marriage contract meant that they had to give up Narcissa instead, and the manor house that was supposed to be a dowry was immediately ceded and the dowry for Narcissa was renegotiated, giving the Malfoy's a sizable portion of the Black fortune. The worst part was that Abraxas Malfoy insisted that Narcissa be given as chattel, without the right to work or own property without her husband's consent and unable to break the marriage unless her husband cast her out. She was little more than a slave for the last forty years, and she _hated_ her sister for what she did. Andromeda was never subjected to the ritual to lock away the bloodline magic. If it was a hundred years ago, ministry law for theft of magic would have seen both of them arrested and condemned to death, but the ministry is a bit less medieval now."

Ansgar shook his head at the barbarity. "Anyhow, I suspect he tried to do it the night he killed the Potters, but when his killing curse backfired on him instead, so did the ritual. There are other possible answers." He said with a glance at Harry, who still doubted a ritual had taken place that night. "But I feel this is the most likely."

"What other possibilities have you explored?" Rowena asked.

"Ignoring the ritual, magic is about intention. Voldemort intended to steal the Potter bloodline magics, so when he died instead, the magic decided to be reborn inside Harry. The magic intended justice." Ansgar was loath to admit it, but there was yet another possibility. "There is also another potential explanation." He said aloud. "It could very well be as Slytherin suggests. Although the Potters have never shown the slightest hint of Slytherin bloodline magics, Lily Evans was born to muggles. She might actually be descended from a squib line of a family that branched out of Salazar's many generations ago. She didn't show the ability, but it may have been dormant, or she may have been clever enough to keep it secret, since it is regarded as a very dark ability. The Evans can only trace their genealogy back four generations. However the Gaunt family, the only known descendants of Slytherin's line, had solid records, and there is no branch within fourteen generations. Unless one of them had a bastard with a muggle and didn't bother to note it. Which is entirely possible, but given their notions of pruning their bloodline, they would be far more likely to track down the child and kill it than to let it live. I suppose if one slipped past them, and carried the dormant ability through the generations of mundanes, it could have activated when Voldemort died."

Salazar was brooding. "So the curse on my bloodline continues? Must all my children turn dark? What has become of my known descendants? Did this Voldemort have any children?"

Ansgar looked to Harry and Snape. Harry shrugged. Snape answered. "The Dark Lord was never known to have relations, but he was very private. He also disappeared for over a decade after he finished school, searching out lost knowledge wherever it was hidden across the world. There was enough time for him to have a child, if he found himself inclined. I don't know, and there is no way to find out. He would have taken steps to ensure that nobody could find such a secret, if he did indeed have a child."

Salazar looked to Harry. "There is a way to test your bloodline. It won't answer how you are related to me, but it will determine if you are or not."

"You can't be serious!" Godric interrupted. "That's incredibly dangerous. If he tests himself on your family magic it could decide to kill him!"

Rowena shook her head. "It would be better if you did not."

"What, exactly, is being proposed here?" Ansgar asked.

"For him to take up my ring." Salazar answered.

Snape growled. "He is the only chance we have of undoing the damage the Dark Lord did to the world; it would be the utmost example of blatant stupidity if we risked his life for no gain!"

"Helga mentioned your intention. Going back in time, was it? A bit mad, and more likely to kill you than taking up my ring. But if you succeed, then being the recognized head of the Slytherin line would surely undermine my descendant's claims. It would remove his legitimacy as a pureblood." Salazar said.

Snape thought his thinking was very Slytherin, and not surprising considering the speaker. "You're forgetting that Potter is now little more than a squib." He said. "Squibs can't be heads of house. The family magic rejects them outright, even if they're the sole remaining member. It's why he was refused the chance to try and claim the Potter headship. He never had the opportunity when he first came of age because of the war, and now he no longer qualifies."

Harry had his curiosity peaked. "I know you lot probably know all about this, but what exactly is family magic? Is it like bloodline magic? Does every family have it? How strong is it? Does that mean I have family magic from my parents, or do I have to take up the headship first?" He asked several more questions, rapidly talking until he ran out of breath.

Ansgar knew enough to answer his own questions, but not enough to answer Harry's. He turned to Snape, who shook his head and explained. "The only similarity is that they're both inherited. Bloodline magic doesn't care about the family name, so anyone who is a descendant can pick it up, even if it doesn't show in every child or even every generation. It is what Ansgar calls unique magic. Things like parselmouths, metamorphmaguses, assessors, or prophets. It is a unique magical ability. Even squibs can manifest it, without having any actual magic of their own."

"Which is why I can still talk to snakes." Harry mused.

"Yes. Family magic is different. Every wizard in a magical family leaves a little bit of magic behind when they die. That magic passes from parent to child, concentrating more in the eldest, and is usually tied in a more significant way to the head of house. Family magic is raw power, and some of the older families have family magic that can manifest itself corporeally. Over time, as more generations pass and the family magic becomes stronger, it begins to specialize itself. A family with a profession such as enchanting might have their family magic become stronger in that area, and over the generations stronger still. The Zolnerowich family was considered to be the best artificers in the world. But specialization always makes family magic weaker in other areas. Not impotent, but also not particularly powerful. To create a new magical family, a founder has to perform a ritual to bind the magic leftover when they die to their descendants. Family magic is what enforces magical contracts. So a young family, or someone without any family magic, could not be compelled to fulfill such an agreement. Even employment contracts cannot be magically enforced without family magic. Yet another excuse for why purebloods are bias against muggleborns and those of lesser families. They feel that unless they come from old family stock, they cannot be trusted."

"So purebloods really are more powerful wizards?" Harry asked. "It sure didn't seem like it at school. The muggleborns seemed just as strong as the purebloods. And Ansgar said that the muggleborns were just rekindled magicals descended from squib lines that mixed with muggles, and that they were stronger."

Ansgar nodded. "They are, by default. Their magical cores have a greater capacity, and replenish faster. But that is only their core, it does not take into consideration any family magic they may have. And family magic is, as Snape explained, not translatable directly into power. It serves a specialized purpose, and is tied to the head of the family. Draco could not have wielded the full power of his family magic until his father died and he inherited the headship. Without that event occurring, he was not any more powerful than the average pureblood, although some family magic is tied to every family member and doubtlessly augmented his spells. Those of rekindled blood were stronger, and halfbloods like you stronger still. I believe there may also have been some selection bias involved with those chosen to attend Hogwarts."

Snape agreed. "Hogwarts has been more selective of its students in recent centuries than it was in the past. As offensive as it may seem, magically weaker muggleborns are not afforded the choice to attend. There are many lesser schools and vocational institutes throughout Great Britain where such students are given the chance to learn magic, as well as children from wizarding families without the means to afford tuition. Muggleborns are usually sponsored by charity programs, provided they pass basic aptitude tests. Your family pays for and runs the largest of those charities. A significant number of your muggleborn classmates could only attend because the Potters were paying for their scholarships. The governors use the high tuition costs to limit access to the school. Hogwarts is reserved for those with high magical potential and for aristocrats. I think the only reason the board of governors allowed muggleborns to attend was because the charter required it and they could more easily supplement their bloodline with powerful stock. A muggleborn has few options after school, outside of marriage or finding a pureblood sponsor. It is more difficult for witches than for wizards. Muggleborn witches that don't marry often find themselves retreating to the muggle world or seeking additional vocational training to find a more menial occupation."

"That's horrible!" Helga exclaimed. "Not at all as we intended the school."

"It is simply a symptom of how caustic our society has become. The insular views of a powerful minority infected the government and were being pushed on the rest through institutional changes, such as education. It is actually comical how far the standards of education have dropped since such policies were implemented." Snape explained.

"But they're still magicals!" Godric said. "I mean hatred against muggles I can understand. I don't _agree_ with it, but I _understand_." He looked pointedly at Salazar. "Some of them are right _horrible_ _murdering bastards_. I've seen the burned corpses of magical children that muggles decided were sinful. I've lost friends to those fires. It hurts, and part of me wants to hate the muggles for it. But muggleborns are witches and wizards. They are at risk the same as us all, worse even, because they don't know how to defend themselves. How could our society turn on its own?"

"Three civil wars in two centuries, each one started by a Dark Lord worse than the last. The first war started near the end of the nineteenth century, and ended before Dumbledore left Hogwarts. A necromancer calling himself the Dark Lord Dahaka tried to make himself an undead god. He preached no ideology, made no demands, and attacked without apparent purpose. Nobody followed him willingly; he took the corpses of his enemies and _made_ his followers, raising the dead and filling the empty husks with the spirits of otherworldly abominations. He stood alone against the entire Wizarding World, and damn near won. It took the mobilization of every Auror and Hit-Wizard in Europe to stop him and two years of mass obliviations to maintain the statute of secrecy. The youth of the magical world was effectively culled in the conflict, mucking up the inheritance of many houses. And the Dark Lord didn't die quietly; his dying curse let loose a widespread plague that lasted until the beginning of the twentieth century and had an unbroken record of infant mortality."

"Necromancy was a lost art even in our time, though we know well the tales of what horrors it can accomplish. If he discovered some ancient text and took up such power…" Helga hung her head. "I cannot say that we would have fared better. Worse perhaps, as there was no central authority in our time and few would have answered a call to arms."

"Between the first war and the plague, the magical population was severely impacted. Then, just as society was recovering from those losses, the second war broke out. The Dark Lord Grindelwald was not as bad as bloodthirsty as the Dark Lord Dahaka, pursuing a campaign of conquest rather than genocide, but the war still caused the extinction of several bloodlines. In the third war, entire families were hunted down by the Dark Lord Voldemort, all because he sought to steal their bloodline magic. And there was never enough time between these conflicts for the population to recover."

"But if there was such a need for more magicals, _why_ would muggleborns be discriminated against?" Godric asked.

"There was a time when muggleborns weren't considered a threat to pureblood ideology, because they were outnumbered by so much that they simply didn't matter. In fact, great efforts were made to integrate them into magical society. They also weren't as discriminated against, although they had no real power or voice in government, they weren't denied jobs or positions if they were capable. The wars changed everything. Magical society is in such a state of decline that even if magic had not abandoned us I do not think we would survive another century. There are _half_ as many magicals now compared to the beginning of the twentieth century and a _third_ as many as there were at the start of the nineteenth century. Yet the muggle population has exploded to such proportion that even at odds of one in ten thousand, more muggleborn are born each year than purebloods. And purebloods are too protective of their inheritances. They have very few children, and usually stop after a male heir is born, even if it is the first child. This is both because the firstborn child is always the strongest magically and also because inbreeding has made many families infertile. They have resorted to potions and rituals to force conception. Muggleborns have no issue with having or producing large families. This results in a vastly disproportionate population, with purebloods becoming severely outnumbered."

"Has it really gotten so bad?" Godric asked.

"While there used to be hundreds of families that could trace their lineage back thousands of years, now there are perhaps a dozen. Most pureblood families alive right now are only a few hundred years old. There are still plenty of magical families that aren't considered pureblood, and their contribution to the population is almost equal to the muggleborns and purebloods combined. But they don't wield much political power and are almost always neutral. The purebloods control the government, and fear an uprising of muggleborns demanding fair representation. They pass legislation empowering themselves against such a threat to their positions, and make laws that keep the muggleborns under control. They are careful not to do anything that would harm the neutrals and push them to side with the muggleborns."

"And in so doing they create the very threat they fear, making the government and society itself an enemy of muggleborns. Fools." Salazar sighed. "This insanity has infected our school?"

"The school governors wanted to ensure that Hogwarts remained an untainted bastion for pureblood children to learn 'proper' magic. They believed that if only their children have access to better education that they would be able to more easily maintain their position in society. But there just weren't enough of them left to fill the school. Policies of exclusivity further compound the issue. Even with higher fees, the fact that there are so few students attending has reduced income. The school could not afford a number of needed supplies, or as high a standard of instructors. Many subjects are no longer taught for lack of money to pay for the class or the teachers to instruct it. The wards had not been updated or strengthened by professionals in many decades. The runes teacher and her seventh year class usually did work on the wards near the end of the school year. I myself only taught there because Dumbledore had leverage on me. No other potions master would accept the level of pay I agreed to. It also doesn't help that the defense against the dark arts position is a deathtrap."

"It's been cursed for fifty years." Ansgar explained to the stunned founders. "Voldemort did something when he was refused the position, so that no one else could have it. Whoever takes it invariably ends up gone by the end of the year. Usually not dead, although plenty have died."

Harry was incensed. "All of this because purebloods think they're better than everyone else and insist on forcing everyone else to repeat their beliefs? Even then the only thing they have that gives them any advantage is family magic, and that's mostly negated by the inbreeding that weakens the individuals themselves! Utter stupidity!" He shouted.

"This is where pureblood ideology comes from." Snape said. "The idea that older families are more powerful isn't really untrue, but it also isn't really as much as the pureblood proponents claim it to be. That doesn't include family spells, which are traditionally kept in a grimoire protected by really old charms that prevent people unrelated by blood from even opening the book. But anyone can learn those if they have access, and more than a few were learned after someone used them in public."

"Was it only the bloodline magic that Voldemort was taking with his ritual?" Rowena asked. "Or did he have some way to steal the family magic as well? You said he had to kill every member of the bloodline for it to work."

"If he killed the family head last, he could conceivably have taken the family magic as well." Ansgar answered. "That didn't happen very often. And he was already a ridiculously powerful wizard, to such a degree that the boost to his magic would have been minimal. The family magic's specialization might have been a better motivation for him. I can't be sure."

"What did the Potter family magic specialize in?" Harry asked.

Ansgar shrugged. "I never came across any specific reference." He said, looking to Snape.

"I don't know." Snape said. "But it is useless without being able to claim the headship."

"Runes and wards." Godric answered. "We hired them for that reason. They put up the wards on Hogwarts."

"I never knew. And what about the Blacks?" Harry inquired.

"Curses and ritual magic." Snape answered quickly. It was common knowledge. The Blacks were very famous for their family magic. "There was even a branch of curses developed by the family, called _black_ magic, and containing very dark spells. Why does it matter?"

"Because I have the Black headship." Harry said, holding up his hand and willing the invisible ring to appear. It hid at all times except when he called it. The plain band had no markings, but was made entirely of diamond, with a single thread of pulsing black energy in the core of the material. The thread went all the way around the ring.

"How?" Snape asked, shocked. "I thought Malfoy was the closest heir? His mother was a Black, while you are related through your grandmother. He was the closer relation; it should have gone to him." He didn't sound upset, merely puzzled.

Harry shrugged. "We took shelter in one of the Black family properties and Hermione was trying to throw up some better wards. It was some stuff she designed. But for some reason they weren't sticking. Kreacher, that's the Black family house elf, showed up and told me I needed the wardkey to modify any wards on the property, and I had to give Hermione permission before she could do it. He gave me the ring and told me to put it on. It tingled a little but then we could modify the wards, so I thanked him and Hermione finished the job. Only found out it was the headship ring about a year ago."

"I'm pretty sure that elf was trying to kill you." Snape said calmly, his anger hidden. If he ever had an occasion to come across that particular creature, he was going to kill it. "You're _very_ lucky that the family magic didn't take offense at your usurpation of the line, and even more lucky that you were accepted as the family head. That is quite unprecedented."

"Yea, that explains why he was so disappointed when I put it on and nothing happened. Started screaming obscenities a few minutes later until I told him to leave. As far as the headship goes, my paternal grandmother was a Black, and Sirius Black, the last head of the family, was my godfather and named me as his heir."

Salazar frowned. "You said that you were the one that would be sent back? No offense to squibs or muggles, but how will you be able to change anything if you don't have magic? Family magic or not, you can't use it if you're a squib."

"He wasn't always a squib." Ansgar replied. "He gave up his magic to destroy Voldemort in the last battle. Ended the war."

"Still, I am a master of ritual magic and a fair expert on alchemy. Trust me when I say that any ritual used to send him back is unlikely to work as well on a squib as it would on a magical. Rituals are augmented by their participants. I don't recommend that he take part."

Snape debated with himself for half a second before responding. "He still has his magic." He explained. "He freed it, but it never really left. It stuck around and seems quite attached to him."

All of the founders except for Helga instantly looked at Harry. Helga instead watched her peers, and seemed quite amused at their reactions.

"Is he saying that you're a listener?" Rowena asked.

"That's what Helga called me." Harry replied. "But I don't really know what it means. I guess my mother was too. Helga gave me a bunch of books about it to read, but that was only yesterday. I haven't really done more than glance through them."

"I'll trust her judgment on such things." Rowena said. "But truly, this is astounding. You said your mother was a listener as well? And you both willingly surrendered your magic? What did you request for your boon? Did your magic grant it?"

"I don't know about my mother, but I did more than that. I was risking a lot already, since I know that magic doesn't like doing certain things, like killing someone, and it can refuse to grant your boon if it doesn't agree with it being necessary or if you're being too greedy. So I offered myself as a sacrifice so it would agree to destroy Voldemort."

"And you're still alive!?" Helga exclaimed. "Your magic didn't accept your offering, but it still acknowledged and granted your boon? In a thousand years of guiding the listeners who have passed through Hogwarts I've never heard of such a thing!"

Ansgar had a few ideas. "I think magic itself was upset with Voldemort. At that point, he had already performed the ritual that doomed us all, and he had done some really terrible things."

"Wait. If it only sent his own killing curse back at him, then it didn't really kill him. He killed himself." Godric said. "So your magic didn't require the sacrifice to grant your boon."

Snape, Harry, and Ansgar shared a look. "Uhm… We aren't telling this story very well." Harry said. "See, the killing curse was the first time he died."

"The _first_ time?" Salazar asked.

"I was only a year and a half old, and my mother sacrificed her life to protect me, and her magic was what shielded me." Harry elaborated.

"How, exactly, did he die a second time?"

"He made horcruxes." Snape explained.

"Plural? As in: _more than one?_" Rowena demanded.

"We think he made seven." Harry replied. "The last one was me. That was an accident that happened when he died the first time."

"You _think_ he made seven. You aren't sure? How can you be certain he is dead? Did your magic reach so far to destroy them all when it granted your boon?" Rowena asked.

"We found another way to kill him." Ansgar answered. "A special warding that trapped him, so that if he died inside it he had no tether to his horcruxes. And with nothing to anchor him, he died forever."

"But even if the active spirit is gone, any of the other horcruxes could possess someone and devour their soul to give themselves a body. He would not be the same man you faced, but he would have all of his memories up until the point he made the abomination."

Ansgar shook his head. "A more technical explanation, then. We used the fact that his soul fragments were all linked. We didn't really cut the connection; we abused it. Instead of holding him to the world, the connection was reversed so that his horcruxes were held to him. When his spirit died and was banished, all the other pieces of his soul were dragged into oblivion right along with him."

§Damn my blood. Damn the fools!§ Salazar hissed, covering his face with his hands.

"How did he come back?" Godric asked.

"During my fourth year at Hogwarts, there was a triwizard tournament between Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. I was illegally entered into the tournament, but because it was a magically binding contract, I was forced to compete. The whole thing was a setup. One of Voldemort's followers, his best spy and a master duelist to boot, replaced one of the staff at the school using polyjuice. He rigged the tournament so that I would win, because the victory cup was a portkey that returned the winner to the judge's stand. It was made by Headmaster Dumbledore, so it could go through the wards. Only, the spy modified it by adding another portkey layer. He used it to get me outside of the protection of Hogwarts and to his master, so Voldemort could use my blood in a resurrection ritual. Except I agreed to a tie with another champion, and when we touched the cup we were both taken. Voldemort's other servant killed him. After the resurrection, I dueled briefly with Voldemort. Our wands had cores from the same phoenix, and they… had a reaction to each other. I was able to escape, using the remaining portkey charge on the cup, and brought Cedric's body back with me."

Throughout the retelling, Harry became quieter, until he was barely whispering. He lived again each moment as he spoke, and tears fell well before he finished. His magic hummed around him while he was speaking, letting him know it was there, and it wrapped around him warmly when he finished.

"He never regained his soul fragments? That would have been a far faster way for him to regain a body." Godric asked.

Ansgar nodded. "He may have taken the piece of his soul out of his snake familiar and used its power to create the homunculus he inhabited for the year prior to his resurrection. We know that Aleksei Zolnerowich's father had the thing bound for two years, and it was a horcrux then. But we also know that Voldemort remade that particular horcrux during the summer solstice the year before he came back. I can't imagine he would put two pieces of himself into one body."

"It's reasonable to assume that he did so, then." Godric agreed. "Did any of them manifest or try to incarnate as separate entities?"

Harry spoke. "His diary. It was during my second year. It was the first one he made, back when he was a seventh year student. He opened the chamber of secrets, used the basilisk to kill another student, and that was enough to break a piece of his soul away to make it."

§My heir used Sarrisa to kill a student?§ Salazar hissed, agonizing over the knowledge.

"Yes, but that was about fifty years before I started school. Anyway, one of his followers managed to slip the diary to a first year student. The girl was quickly possessed and Voldemort used her to open the chamber again. The basilisk petrified a bunch of students, but nobody died. In the end, he dragged the girl he possessed down into the chamber to finish draining her. I found the entrance and went in to rescue her, having no clue who I was actually going up against. He looked like any other student, but revealed that he was really Voldemort. He summoned the basilisk and ordered it to kill me. I'm still not sure how I survived that one. Dumbledore's phoenix showed up and clawed its eyes out, which let me use mine to see with, but Voldemort had my wand. Then the sorting hat, which was brought in by the phoenix, gave me Godric's sword. The basilisk tried to eat me, and I held the sword over me when it tried to bite, and it impaled itself."

Godric was smiling. "I'm glad my sword chose a new wielder. It didn't find any of my sons worthy. But you were lucky. You hardly look strong enough to lift it now, let alone how small you must have been in second year."

"I'll never doubt that I was lucky. Anyhow, the basilisk did manage to sink a fang into my arm when it impaled itself. The fang broke off and I had to pull it out, but by then I was poisoned and dying. The phoenix came over and cried on the wound, healing me, and I managed to get the diary away from Ginny -that was the student he possessed- and stabbed it with the fang. To be honest, it was really lucky the basilisk was there. Without the venom, which is apparently one of the only things that can kill these horcruxes, I would never have been able to save her."

Salazar took a long breath. "I am glad Sarrisa was able to aid in some small way. I have no doubt that the petrifications were deliberate on her part. She was very skilled in using her gaze to kill. If she had been a willing participant in the attacks, every one of them would have been fatalities. I can take some solace from that."

"I wish you would never have brought the creature to our school." Helga said. "It was foolish to risk having such a dangerous creature so close to children, no matter how loyal it was to you."

"If not for Sarrisa, the school would have been destroyed when the Norse invaded. She saved the school from destruction thrice from them alone, and again when the Dark Lord Lyanic tried to take over." Salazar defended. "I wish that I had not made the mistake of binding her to my bloodline. If I had trusted in her loyalty and judgment, she could never have been forced to go against the school. I have no doubt that it was not luck that she died as she did. She threw herself on the Godric's sword willingly. I am certain of it. That you did not die immediately makes me more certain still. Basilisks have some measure of control over the magic in their venom. A bite directly from the snake would have killed you long before phoenix tears could have helped, unless she suppressed her venom's potency. Phoenix tears are a cure only for blades coated in the venom, the bite from the snake, with venom from the fangs themselves, is too fast and too strong to hope to cure before it kills."

"Then your explanation is a good fit for how he survived as long as he did." Ansgar said. "That was a mystery that was bothering my research into lycanthropy."

"I don't see how they are connected." Salazar said.

Snape interrupted before Ansgar could get started. "Another time, gentlemen. We have more pressing problems that we need help with, if we are to have any chance of succeeding." He did _not_ want Ansgar to go off on a tangent about one of his projects.

Godric turned his regard upon Harry. "You said that you were here to save the world. But it seems you already have, if this Dark Lord of yours is dead at your hand. So what, exactly, are you seeking?"

"Before he was defeated, Voldemort completed another ritual." Harry explained. "He was trying to purify the wizarding world by removing what he considered impure bloodlines. The ritual prevents the conception of a child when either parent has more than an insignificant trace of muggle blood. It also affects several other sentient magicals, including centaurs, goblins and veela. For those of mixed blood, only those who took his mark were exempt from the effects. Magic itself retaliated against this abomination by withdrawing from everyone. Within another year, two at the most, everyone will be a squib. But that doesn't matter so much, because no one else will ever be born after the last pregnancies come to term, which will be within four months or so."

Salazar was aghast. "Surely some pureblood lineages survived my descendant's madness! He could not have killed them all!" He seemed in despair over the horrors done in his name.

"No, he did not." Ansgar answered. "But it doesn't matter, since there is no functional difference between mundane and magical blood. They all share the same common ancestors, and all lineages have interbred enough to carry a more than significant trace of mundane blood, even if it _was_ somehow different. So the ritual, being made to attack mundane blood, in effect was made to attack everyone. No one except those marked by Voldemort escaped, and even they were subject to magic's retaliation. It is the end of the world. We have a single generation to fix this, or else we will cease to exist."


	3. Chapter 3

**_Author's Note: _****_It should be obvious, but I must declare that I own no rights to the Harry Potter story or any of its characters. All such ownership belongs to J. K. Rowling. Only characters of my own creation are not hers, and I reserve no rights upon them, so if they catch your fancy feel free to use them._**

* * *

Chapter Three:

Five hours of discussion followed, but while the four founders were able to bring their massive pool of knowledge to bear on the problem, they were not really able to grasp new ideas or offer creative solutions. They were, as they described themselves, pale reflections of the people whose image they shared. More like a memory of their consciousness left behind than an actual representation of their person. Salazar and Harry carried on a private conversation in parseltongue, and despite the founder's gruff manner, Harry discovered a strange sort of kinship with the man. Neither had much to offer the discussion happening between the others, so they instead exchanged life stories.

Harry would never have believed how similar their childhoods were if he hadn't heard it from the man himself. Salazar Slytherin was a muggleborn. A true muggleborn, he was the first in his bloodline to wield magic. His family was of peasant stock, but his father and uncle were both raised up as yeomen to the local lord, giving them a measure of respect and privilege. When he began displaying accidental magic it caused a panic in his family, and given that he was born to magic his outbursts were quite spectacular and difficult to hide. His magic was discovered by his neighbors when he was eight. His family lost their position as yeomen, and the local priest attempted to exercise the demons from him, beating him until he made a false confession to god. He thought that telling the priest what the man wanted to hear would absolve him and the pain would stop. Instead, his words brought the man into a frenzy. He was dragged into the village square that evening and tied to a stake to be burned alive.

But he wasn't alone.

His sister Gwendolyn was there, beside him. She was the only one of his family that believed him to be innocent. Apparently upset at his treatment, she attacked the priest, only to be called out as a witch herself. Salazar honestly didn't know if she had magic or not, but he suspected that she didn't, as she was several years older than him and had never displayed accidental magic. Their family stood by without a word as torches were placed against the kindling. To his dying day, his sister's screams still haunted Salazar. His own began not long after hers. He wanted desperately to get away; to submerge himself in cool water and extinguish the flames.

His magic surged, and he felt squeezed on all sides, as though he was diving deep into the lake. Suddenly he was falling, and water broke his landing. The sun was setting, but he swam to shore and recognized where he was: the lake a mile south of the village. His legs were badly burned and bleeding, but he ignored the pain and walked towards what used to be his home. It took him almost an hour to walk the short distance, the agonizing pain as he forced himself to take each step left him gasping for breath. The burn blisters seeped red tinged puss, bleeding down his legs and leaving bright red lines over black charred skin.

He didn't want to be caught again, but he had to help his sister.

He had to get her free from the fire.

He arrived to find the pyre burned to ash and smoldering embers. His sister gone forever.

Rage overcame him, and his fingers clenched so tightly that his palms bleed. He hated the village, hated his stupid traitorous family, but most of all he hated the bigoted fool of a priest. His anger burned brighter than the embers, a fury that demanded retribution. His magic answered his unspoken desire, and fiendfyre erupted from either hand, spreading out before him as a pair of massive serpents. He walked up to the church, setting the living fire upon the building. It was funny, how he was accused of consorting with the devil, and only after he was wrongfully punished for such a sin did he call up demonic flame to wreck his vengeance.

So swift were the flames that the whole of the church was consumed before anyone could call alarm. The priest never even had a chance to scream, as one of the serpents of flame opened its mouth and swallowed him whole. All that was left was a scar of ruined land, dirt riddled with shards of glass. Salazar had been lucky that his fiendfyre manifested as serpents, because they obeyed his parselmouth spoken commands to cease, instead of spreading to the rest of the village. His anger did not go so far as seeking to kill the many village children who were once his friends. Only two had been present for his burning, and they had both cried for him and his sister. The children had not yet been taught to hate.

It was a sobering story. And Harry could understand the pain and anger that Salazar felt, having suffered years of neglect and casual abuse by his relatives and many times under the torturous mercies of the madman Voldemort. For him, the pain of losing so many of his friends was stark and recent. But Harry was able to do what Salazar was not. He was able to be angry at the bigotry, the injustice, and the person acting upon it, rather than the group of people the person belonged to. He even pointed it out to Salazar, that in his own story he only sought vengeance against the priest; not his family, and not the village itself. But Salazar was not able to grasp this concept. He remained only a portrait.

Harry reciprocated Salazar's confession by telling the founder about his own childhood. He spoke of his time with the Dursleys, and the life he lived growing up under their hate. It was cathartic to unburden himself on someone willing to listen without judgment. He had never told anyone before, not even his friends, though he was sure they had suspected the truth. He hissed his confession of the verbal abuse he endured, the bitterness he felt, the labors he was compelled to perform, and the beatings he received if anything was done wrong or if something freakish happened. He admitted that he had lived most of his childhood in a cupboard under the stairs, not even tall enough for his tiny frame to stand in. By the end he was fighting back tears.

His magic swirled around him. _**Never again**__._ It pulsed in promise. _Never again unloved. Never again forgotten. Never again to suffer alone. Always be here._

Harry sank into the chair he was sitting in, pulling his legs up and burying his face in his knees, losing himself in the warmth and affection of his magic.

Salazar was utterly convinced that Harry was his blood descendant, and was determined to teach him what he knew about parselmagic. It wasn't a well-studied field, as there were so few practitioners of the talent. The first parselmouths were said to be demonic creatures called lamia that were a hybrid of snake and human. Most knowledge came from the early Rajput dynasties of India, where there were stories of the lamia originated. They were said to kidnap children and devour them. Salazar knew better. They were very selective in choosing a child to take, and always the child was given the choice. Salazar was such a child, and he told Harry the story.

It began a full two years before the village discovered him and the priest condemned him to burn at the stake. Salazar already knew he was different by the time he turned six. His magic had already manifested several times, and it scared him. But this time was more frightening, because his family saw it happen. Salazar had a terrible argument with his father which sparked another incident of accidental magic. His father was so angry that he was banished from the house for the rest of the day. But Salazar did not leave with the intention of returning; he ran away from home.

After wandering aimlessly for almost a day he came across a stream. He slid down the embankment and drank from the water, but as he finished slacking his thirst he felt something call to him. Following the course of water upstream, he came to a cave from which the water flowed. Whatever called him was inside. He worked up his courage and waded into the water. After a few moments he reached a point where the water brushed the roof of the cave and he could go no further without submerging himself. The call was stronger now, and he felt powerless to resist.

Taking three deep breaths, he dove forward into the darkness and cold of the water. Feeling his way with his hands, he pushed on for almost a minute, hoping to find a pocket of air. He found nothing, and began to panic as his breath ran out. He was blind, shivering, and drowning. Suddenly he felt something move in the water beside him. A moment passed and then he was wrapped in a constricting grip by an unseen monster and yanked forward against the current. Twenty long heartbeats later he was pulled from the water into a cavern lit by glowing plants.

The creature that saved him was both beautiful and terrible; her upper body was that of a gorgeous young woman, with wet hair that pasted against her nude frame, but her lower body was that of a scaled serpent. He stood, staring and unable to decide if he should run. He felt trapped, but also strangely unafraid. The creature slid forward and wrapped her arms around him, lifting him up and holding him to her chest. She kissed his forehead and sang softly to him in a hissing language he did not understand, but it washed over him and he fell asleep.

Salazar woke to find himself dry, his rags replaced with a silky textured, white colored frock. He was on a cushiony bed of plants, with a glowing bulb on the cave wall beside him. He held his hands up in front of his face, examining his new clothes with awe. Nothing had ever felt so comfortable before. He pinched the material between his fingers and rubbed it. He could feel tiny scales scrape softly against his skin. It was an animal hide of some sort, he realized. The aroma of cooking meat caught his attention, and he sat up to look around.

He was in a room, carved out of rock, and a single opening in the wall on the far side from the bed led elsewhere. He stood and wandered out of the room. A hallway connected his room with two others. The first was an odd room where a dark green fungus was growing down in long strands from the ceiling; apparently it was being deliberately farmed. The second was equally strange, with a shallow bowl being cut into the floor, filling most of the otherwise empty room. He passed both and followed the hall to its end, where it opened up into a vast cavern.

The floor was sloped slightly, almost unnoticeable except for an occasional drop of water would fall from a stalactite and slide across the floor, always in the same direction. The stream was flowing through the cavern along the wall on the deeper side. The water of the stream was utterly black. A fire crackled and cast flickering light and long shadows against the floor and walls. The light was immensely bright compared to the glowing plant bulbs. It stabbed his eyes with its intensity. Only after a minute of slow adjustment could he look near the fire without being blinded. The creature, now fully a woman and clothed in a gown of the same material that he wore, sat beside the fire tending to a few cuts of fish in a metal pan.

§Hello.§ She hissed.

He blinked in amazement. He could understand her! §Hello.§ He replied falteringly.

She laughed, and the sound was like the tinkling of a light rain falling into puddles. §You sound quite funny. But don't worry, you will become used to speaking the noble tongue.§ She told him. §I am Andarial Slytherin.§

Salazar scowled. He did not like being laughed at. §I am Salem.§ He replied. It was his birth name, a thing he would later cast off. His family was not important enough to have a surname, and he would not refer to himself as yeoman's son; he did not respect his father enough to give the man that honor. He hesitated, and then steeled himself to ask. §What are you?§

She laughed again. §I am a lamia.§ She said. §I am the Empress of Serpents. My word is their law, my whim is their purpose. To them, I am their goddess.§

§Did you call me here?§ He asked with some fear.

Her answer did nothing to reassure him. §You called yourself to me, child.§ She hissed in reply. She fixed her attention momentarily on the fish, poking them with a silver knife. Salazar's stomach betrayed him, growling audibly enough to be heard over the burbling stream and crackling fire. She smiled at him. §Join me. The food is done.§ She said, gesturing to the spot on the stone bench beside her.

He nodded and stepped over to her, sitting down slowly and keeping a space between them. She used the knife to lift the fish cuttings out of the pan and into a pewter bowl. When it was full she handed to him. §Aren't you going to eat?§ He asked.

§I ate mine when I caught them.§ She said.

He decided not to think about eating raw fish, and instead dug his fingers into the soft meat. It was hot to the touch, but he was too hungry to wait or care. He greedily devoured the food while she washed the pan in the stream. He looked around while he ate, noticing the crack in the roof through which the smoke seeped away, and the vines that grew along the walls and sprouted the glowing bulbs that lit the cave with soft yellow light. All too soon he was finished. §Thank you.§ He said. She was the first person besides his sister to bother caring for him. His mother had died when he was still very young.

§You're welcome, child.§ She replied.

§So why did this happen?§ He asked. §You said I called myself to you. Why? What does it mean? And how can I speak with you now? I don't understand any of this. Why is the fire so bright? What's happening to me?§

§Your eyes, child, have found a home in the dark. You are seeing the heat that clings to things, and fire is very hot. Do not worry; your eyes will adjust back when there is sufficient light to see by. As for speaking the noble tongue, it is my gift to you, along with your eyes.§ She quieted for a long moment. §You are not entirely at fault for being here. Yes, you called yourself to me, but I also heard your call and answered. And that means that I am obligated to teach you. As for what is happening to you, well, I have changed you. I have made you anew. You are becoming as I am. You are a lamia newly hatched.§

He recoiled in horror. §Why?§ He demanded. §Why would you do this to me?§

She sighed and looked at him with sadness. §Because you called, child, and because I felt the need to answer.§ She set her hands in her lap and turned away from him. §Because I have been so very, very lonely. It has been an age since I last spoke with anyone other than a serpent. And longer still since I was last called. I could not help but answer.§

Salazar didn't have an answer to that. He was lonely too. He never knew his mother's love, or his father's affection. His mother died before he was old enough to remember, and he was always a burden to his dad, who never had time to spend raising his son. The only person in the world who truly loved him was his sister. She had raised him, and more than anyone else, he loved her. §I'm sorry.§ He hissed with sympathy. §I didn't mean to be ungrateful. I'm just scared. I ran away from home.§ He admitted.

§You can stay here.§ She said instantly, turning to face him with hope evident in her eyes. §You can stay as long as you like and always be welcome.§

§I… thank you, but I can't.§ He said, wincing at her hurt look. §I just don't know that I could leave my sister. She is everything I care for in the world.§

Andarial nodded. §Family is important.§

§Sorry.§ Salazar said.

§Do not regret your loyalty to those you love. It is a worthy thing.§ She told him. §Come. I will walk you home.§ She stood and he quickly followed as she led him to a corner of the cave and hissed at the wall. §Open.§ She hissed, and the wall receded away. §Just remember that you can always return.§

Salazar told of how he said his goodbyes a few miles from the village, and how he returned home to be smothered in the embrace of his sister and promptly ignored by his father. His sister hid his gifted clothes away before anyone could see them and had him put on other rags. She never asked where they came from, though he would have told her if she had. Midway through that year, the local lord called up his militia, and Salazar's father went away on campaign for five months. Salazar took the opportunity to sneak away a few times to spend a day or two with Andarial. The lamia always knew when he was coming and had food prepared for his stay.

She told stories about her kind, and never refused to answer any question he posed. It was during one of his visits that he wondered about her origins.

§Who were your parents?§ Salazar asked.

§I am the spawn of Gaia; born to be the umbilical that first tethered life to the world.§ She answered.

§What does that mean? Who is Gaia, and who was your mother?§ He queried.

She laughed again. §Gaia is my mother, not my father. And she is the earth itself.§ She explained. §I have no father, for Gaia had need of me and made me to fulfill that purpose. I am one of the firstborn, those who came to be at the dawn of creation; a lesser titan, older than the gods themselves.§

§How old is that?§ Salazar asked.

§It is impolite to ask such things, especially of women.§ She said, her smile promising that she wasn't mad.

§Oh. I'm sorry.§ He replied, hanging his head in shame.

§Why? You didn't know any better. It is not your fault, and you must learn such things.§ She said. Salazar blinked up at her. She was so much nicer than his father. A correction from his father would have warranted a slap. §In truth I do not know how old I am. I began counting only when the concept was introduced to me, and by that reckoning I am entering my eleventh millennium.§ Was she really that old!? It seemed an impossible concept to him. He was not even seven! But she just admitted that she was many thousands of years old, and probably much older than that. §I have seen the birth and death of gods, the rise and fall civilizations, and the beginnings and ends of countless mortal lives. My existence is eternal. My purpose was not. The world has changed, and I am no longer needed. So I am free to do as I will.§

§So god is real?§ He asked. §If you're older than god, that means he is real. I never really believed in god before. Is that a sin? Father says that the strangeness that happens around me is witchcraft, and that magic is the work of the devil. You said I had magic in me. Does that mean that I am sinful? I don't want to be evil.§ Salazar was on the verge of tears by the time he finished asking, his questions spilling out so rapidly that he ran out of breath.

She embraced him in a hug. §You are _not_ evil. You are _not_ sinful. Action alone dictates morality. Without choice there is no good or evil, no virtue or sin. It is a choice that all people make, though they often fail to realize that they have done so. You never chose to have magic, never made a bargain with any demons, and never did willful harm to another.§ She stared into his eyes for a moment. §I never want to hear you say such things about yourself again.§ She demanded. §It is awful and the worst sort of foolishness.§

He nodded slowly. §Thank you.§

Andarial entertained him with stories of the many things she had seen in her long life. She told him of the gods and their petty cruelty. He learned that gods gained power from the worship of mortals and would enslave civilizations to compel their devotion. For many millennia this was the natural order. The gods fought amongst themselves, seeking greater position and power. They made mortals into weapons to be used against one another. Told their slaves to raise armies and slay the worshipers of their rivals, to weaken them. Humans had always had their own sort of magic, a different sort than any other that had ever been known. It was different even than that wielded by the gods; it was ritual magic. It was exacting, but through mantras and invocations, humans could call upon magic itself to perform a task. The gods saw the potential in this alien form of magic, and by compelling humans to worship them and perform devotions and rituals to their benefit, the humans made their gods more powerful.

But the mortals grew weary of their enslavement, and rebelled. With the help of some treacherous gods, mortals were taught how to wield the fire of divinity: incantation magic. They made war upon heaven itself, using the god's own magic against them. Some humans had always held a connection to magic, and mankind had called upon it in their own way for many millennia before the arrival of the gods upon the world. But divine magic was fundamentally different. It was a directed and deliberate power that could be called upon at will. A single word could focus intent and manifest magic to accomplish a task. Yet it drew power directly from the individual, from a reservoir of magic that existed within the caster. Such a reserve did not exist in mankind.

But rituals could change how magic worked, how it behaved. A ritual was created which bound magic inside a chosen individual, enslaving it to them in a reservoir that would replenish itself over time. This binding upon magic would carry on through their bloodline. And so were born the first witches and wizards. With the nature of magic thus changed, humans could now be born with magical cores. A new age was dawning for mankind and the world.

Ritual magic was also essential in breaking the power of the gods, for they claimed to be immortal, and it was proven that could not be truly killed by mortal means, only banished for a time. A ritual was devised which could steal the immortality of the gods. The power of their immortality could not be undone, but could be removed and placed upon another. Another ritual was made which captured the essence of a disembodied god after it had been slain and imprisoned it within a specially prepared soulstone.

The gods, it seemed, were no longer as immortal as they once claimed. Many of the gods were imprisoned, their divine souls chained to soulstones which were hidden away, to be forgotten forever. The worst of the gods were stripped of their immortality and destroyed utterly. Twelve humans had taken upon themselves the burden of the immortal, but mankind was not meant to live forever. The stories said that each of them slowly went insane, and being unable to die, sought to escape into eternal sleep. None knew where they had gone or what they had done, but they vanished from living memory. With the fall of the gods, the nature of magic itself was altered, Gaia was changed and Andarial was no longer bound to her purpose.

She had wandered the world for three millennia, lost and without a reason for her existence. On occasion she would find a worthy child, and if they called to her she would change them, as she had him. Sometimes she would even stay to observe their life. Invariably they aged and died, while she remained, eternally damned by her own immortality. It was an odd concept for Salazar to grasp; that being immortal meant being alone, forever.

Then she showed him what the room with the bowl shaped floor was for. Bringing a pitcher of water from the stream, she poured it into the shallow basin, and then added a few drops of her blood from a cut she made on her hand. Within a few moments the blood mixed into the water, and Andarial sang a softly hissed chant. The bloody water glowed as if the stone beneath the surface burned, and then cleared to reveal an image. It was the village, seen as though through the eyes of a bird. The room was a scrying pool, and it was how she knew when he was coming to visit. She called it the skymirror, for it showed the earth as though reflected upon the sky. It couldn't see inside except through windows, and was next to useless on a dark night, but it was an incredible tool nonetheless.

Several weeks later, Andrarial began to worry. She had not seen him in the mirror for days. Andarial had commanded the serpents in the area to keep watch over Salazar, and they had reported worrisome tidings of a priest inciting a mob of villagers. She feared for the child she had adopted as her own, but dared not show herself on his behalf or else the villagers would forever turn against him. She did not want him to lose his family or be driven from his home through her fault. But as the days passed without sight or sign of him, she became increasingly concerned for his wellbeing. On the evening of the fourth day she witnessed villagers gathering kindling for a pyre and all thoughts of staying hidden vanished as she immediately rushed to reach her imperiled ward.

What was eight hours of walking for Salazar to visit her was less than three for the lamia. Her human guise was abandoned in preference to the speed her serpentine body could achieve. Even still she knew she would be too late. She had waited too long, and her hesitation had killed her first kindred in almost four hundred years. She forced these thoughts out of her mind, choosing instead to entertain thoughts of blood and vengeance. If her precious child was dead at their hands, the villagers would all be joining him.

She reached the outskirts of the village in time to see Salazar destroy the church. She approached him and he blinked up at her before collapsing into her arms, exhausted from the trauma of the day and the magic he had worked. She scried out the location of the clothes she had gifted him and retrieved them from the place where the bundle was hidden, beneath the steps behind his house. Then she gently picked him up and carried him back to her lair. The return trip was made with less panic, but Andarial was still frantic to get home. The burns on his legs worried her. They hadn't stopped bleeding. She was forced to stop and work some petty magic to heal what she could. Her magic was not the sort to be called upon at whim. She needed to get him to her lair to truly help him.

When Salazar awoke, three days later, he cried out in anguish. Andarial was beside him in an instant, embracing him in a comforting hug. §She's dead.§ He grieved. §They killed her and it's my fault!§ He sobbed against Andarial's shoulder while she held him tight. §Gwendolyn… I'm so sorry!§ He cried for an hour, and only really stopped from exhaustion. Andarial forced him to eat some bread and drink some milk. When he was sated he collapsed back into the bed and fell asleep wishing it had been him that died instead of his sister.

Harry found that he sympathized very strongly with that sentiment. He lost so many friends that it hurt to think about it. He shared a few tears with Salazar while the founder of Slytherin finished his story.

Salazar abandoned the name Salem, shedding all ties with his past as a snake sheds its skin. Andarial gifted him with a new name: Salazar. When Salazar asked if he could also take her surname for his own, she smiled fondly at him and promised that she would be honored if he would do so. She took him on as both a foster mother and an apprentice. She gave him a wand made with a core of her own venom, and taught him how to use it. He spent thirteen years learning magic from her, studying spells and herbology and potions.

His contact with the outside world had been minimal, but Andarial insisted that he not become a hermit. She forced him to visit one of the nearby villages several times a week, though he never went back to the place he had been born. Soon he reached the limit of what she could teach him; not being able to cast or having ever studied human magic herself, everything she had taught him was merely learned from observation of humans over the millennia. This left many gaps in his knowledge and she was not able to help him overcome them. Eventually they both decided it would be best if he made his way in the world. He was as prepared as she could make him, and he was ready to find his own path.

Harry sat back with a sigh. They had been talking for hours.

§I still say that you're one of mine.§ Salazar hissed.

"We'll never know for sure." Harry replied aloud.

"What's that?" Ansgar asked.

Harry nodded towards Salazar. "He's still adamant that I'm his blood descendant."

"And you could well be." Ansgar agreed. "But if taking up the ring risks the magic killing you for an attempt at usurping the lineage, I don't think it's worth the risk."

Helga spoke up. "There is another course." She looked at Harry. "Since you are a listener, you can seek out the Slytherin family magic and ask it directly whether or not you are related, and whether or not it will accept you."

"Does that carry the same risks?" Snape asked.

"He wouldn't have to put on the ring." Helga explained. "But I don't know for sure if that would protect him from retribution."

"If he can claim it, he'll be able to call on the Slytherin family magic. That could be hugely advantageous." Salazar said.

"What does Slytherin magic specialize in? What value does it bring to our purpose?" Ansgar asked. Seeing Salazar about to shout at him for questioning the value of his family magic, Ansgar hurriedly explained his reasoning. "You're asking us to take an incredible risk here. It needs to be worth it."

"Legilimency and scrying." Salazar replied.

"Damn." Snape said. "That explains so much."

"How so?" Ansgar wondered.

"I'm a natural occlumens, a born talent, and a master legilimens through two decades of effort. But I was never able to keep the Dark Lord from my mind. I could hide what needed hidden, but never keep him out entirely. Even that I was probably only able to do because it came naturally to me. There was literally no one else who could hide something from him when he went looking for it in their mind. I had to put a temporary memory charm on Draco so that when he returned to the Dark Lord he truly believed that he carried out the mission to kill his mother. If he had any doubt in his thoughts, the Dark Lord would have ripped his mind apart until he was certain of his loyalty."

"Would taking up the Slytherin family magic deny that advantage to Voldemort?" Harry asked.

"Not directly. But if it recognized you as the head of house, you could expel him from the family. _That_ would prevent him from using the family magic." Salazar promised.

"Of course he had already collected so many magics from so many families and bloodlines that denying him that particular power wouldn't really be that great of an advantage. The real benefit comes from the fact that you would have access to it." Ansgar argued. "Being able to forcibly obtain information from captured enemies without needing veritaserum, being able to ensure that your allies are loyal; those capabilities are useful. I can't even begin to guess how beneficial it would be if scrying provided accurate information. Maybe we could hunt down the rest of his horcruxes and kill him that way, instead of having to trap him inside the warding."

"Why bother?" Harry said. "The warding worked fine."

Snape was derisive. "Potter." He said. "I don't think you quite understand what a miracle it was that you defeated him. I honestly thought we were all committing suicide. I have respect for your magical strength, but the Dark Lord is in a league of his own. On top of his natural strength, he's further enhanced himself with so many dark rituals that his power eclipses that of any other wizard alive. That's why he was so terrifying during the first war and a bloody nightmare when he returned for the second."

"I thought he feared Dumbledore." Harry said.

"He feared Dumbledore's knowledge and skill, not his power. Dumbledore was never a terribly strong wizard, merely so obscenely talented at casting and so well studied in obscure magic that he was a devastating opponent to face. Being hit with a curse cast in a dead and forgotten language which required a specific countercurse or hours of effort from a skilled cursebreaker is a good way to lose a fight. The Dark Lord respected the power Dumbledore's knowledge gave him, and the skill with which he wielded it. But if it was only raw magic, the Dark Lord would have destroyed him long ago."

"I see." Harry replied.

"I don't think you do, Potter." Snape said. "Do you think the wizarding world sat idly by while the Dark Lord Grindelwald rose to power? They tried to stop him. Tried and failed. I've heard your muggleborn friend say that if only people took a stand against the Dark Lord he could be defeated easily. She believed that one wizard couldn't take on a significantly larger force, that because the Death Eaters were outnumbered by the rest of the wizarding world that they stood no chance if a concerted effort was made to oppose them. In short, she was wrong. In the first war, I witnessed the Dark Lord single handedly take on a score of Aurors and Hit-Wizards. We were ambushed, and I was neutralized with a body bind before the fight even started. He blocked every spell they threw with a ridiculously overpowered shield charm and killed all of them in less than six seconds. He did it so casually that you would have thought he was taking a morning stroll. He didn't even move, just stood in place and flicked his wand a few times. They caught him when he wasn't ready for them, and he utterly destroyed them all!"

Harry was shocked.

"That was the power the Dark Lord wielded. That was the power the wizarding world feared. Grindelwald was about the same in magical strength as the Dark Lord was before his power was augmented through rituals, but while Gindelwald never debased himself in his bid for power, he was very knowledgeable. Not as much as Dumbledore, but enough to give Albus pause. He also didn't have his former friend's phoenix. The contribution Fawkes made in that conflict cannot be understated. They fought under anti-disapparition wards, but Fawkes was still able to flame, which gave Dumbledore a huge mobility advantage. More than once he would have died from Grindelwald's attacks if not for his phoenix saving him."

Harry wondered again what had become of Fawkes.

"But think on this." Snape continued. "The magical community in Germany and the Low Countries never unified as their muggle counterparts did. They were still a loose confederation of princedoms and minor kingdoms. Gindelwald was able to take power because he walked into the German Ministry during the semi-annual session of their legislature and killed every single one of his them. His own supporters were informed to be absent. He walked in, sealed the exits magically, and killed them all - _by himself_. Over a hundred fully trained wizards in the legislature, and about half as many Aurors and half again as many clerks and bureaucrats. Almost three hundred people against one wizard, and he won. It took him an hour. Do you think they didn't fight back? That they all just laid down and died? I can't even begin to imagine the difference in power between Grindelwald and the Dark Lord; the Dark Lord is most definitely the stronger of the two. And keep in mind that the Dark Lord had been rapidly closing the gap in knowledge between himself and Dumbledore."

Harry blinked, and collapsed into the chair he had claimed. He closed his eyes and sighed. Then opened them and stared at Snape. "I understand." He said. "You're saying that I don't have any chance against Voldemort in a fair fight."

"Your only advantage has been that he constantly underestimates you. He doesn't take you seriously enough, and you manage to just barely survive your encounters; a mistake that has cost him repeatedly. But he learns. If you reveal yourself too soon as a threat, he'll attack you without holding back, without trying to torment you or flaunt his power. He'll kill you, and we'll be doomed all over again."

"Enough! I get it!" Harry shouted. "I'm too weak to protect the people I care about. _That's why they're all dead._" He stood and left.

Ansgar stared after him, but Snape shook his head to stop him from following. "Let him work through it on his own." Snape insisted.

"That was unnecessarily brutal." Ansgar said.

"The point had to be made. All our hopes will rest on him. He has to learn that he can't throw his life away being stupid. He has to understand! Not just his own limits, but how to control his anger and to avoid risks. All of his life he's been throwing himself into danger to protect others. But he can't do that anymore. What we are trying to do is more important than anything else. If he goes back in time and the only way to stop the Dark Lord is to sacrifice his friends all over again, he has to understand that doing so is the _correct _decision. More than that, it is the _only_ choice. Because stopping the Dark Lord is the _only thing that matters_. We are fighting for our continued existence; for our right to have a future. If we lose, we perish forever. Against such consequences, no price is too high to pay to ensure victory."

"I disagree." Ansgar replied. Snape stared at him in disbelief. "Some things carry too high a cost. You say he can't risk his life, but in the same breath say he must be willing to sacrifice everything he values in life. It is his _friends_ that give his life meaning. Take them away and all you have left is his prophesized conflict with the Dark Lord. His destiny doesn't make his life important; that damn prophecy took away_ everything _that was important to him. Because of that prophecy, he lost his family, he lost his friends, he was forced to live through hell, and even though he succeeded in the end, he still lost because all his efforts weren't enough. All because of that goddamn prophecy! That is a cost too high to accept. If we are going to do this, if we are going to send him back, it won't be so that he can lose it all again. I won't stand for it. We'll be sending him back so he can _live_ his life or we bloody well won't be doing it at all!"

"And what about the rest of humanity? Is his happiness really worth the end of magic or the extinction of mankind? It is for the greater good." Snape sneered at his own words, angrier with himself than with Ansgar or Harry. He had never understood Dumbledore more than he did at that moment. The terrible choices that the old wizard had been forced to make, and the suffering wrought from them, all done for the greater good.

"Right moral action, at all times, is the only way to make the world a better place. There is no such thing as a sacrifice for the greater good," Ansgar spat, "unless it is a self-sacrifice. It must be by your own choice and your own self who makes the sacrifice. You cannot demand it of others!"

"I can hardly believe you would be so arrogant, Ansgar." Snape retorted. "To think that being moral is the only way to achieve justice; that you can appease your conscience by claiming not to have done wrong, and think it means you've done right! That is a fallacy! You may wish that it could be true, but it is not and will never be. There is no morality, only action and consequence. If the consequence of an action brings positive results, it can be judged worthy. Which means only one thing: it can only be judged after the fact. That is _why_ intention matters. To decide before it is done that an action is inherently wrong is stupidity at best and delusion at worst."

"How can you say that?" Ansgar demanded. "By your logic, it would be well and fine to murder some random couple strolling down the street because the child they someday have might grow up to be a mass murdering sociopath. Not only would the murder be unconscionable because the couple is innocent of any wrongdoing, but the child might not actually turn out bad."

"Yet would you still consider it to be unconscionable if it were Lucius or Bellatrix we were discussing? Killing them before the Dark Lord returns would remove both his most influential supporter and his most loyal enforcer. If we succeed in sending Harry back, Lucius will be nothing more than a political force and a terrible father, while Bellatrix will be helpless and imprisoned. But still we should consider plans for killing them both. Surely that is an action that is immoral but has consequences that are a benefit to everyone. It would be _for the greater good_." He stressed.

"Don't muddy the issue; this is about Harry. Altruism is done willingly and without coercion. To force such a sacrifice from someone else; to remove freedom and to compel choice, is as unforgivable action. It becomes something that is no longer for the greater good, but for your own good. You ask someone else to sacrifice so you don't have to. We have the benefit of hindsight when dealing with Voldemort's followers, but that is not the case in other circumstances. You are asking Harry for too much, demanding that he concede the very reason he is pursuing this action. We are only human, Snape, with all the imperfections that entails. Harry deserves happiness, and if we can't give it to him with all that we are asking of him, then we shouldn't try. Let him find peace and solace instead. We'll just get drunk and watch the world burn."

That was a very different perspective that Snape had never considered before. Suddenly he resented Albus and the many things he had been asked to do on behalf of the greater good. He had given up more than most, but the choice had never really been his own, and his sacrifices had never been truly his. Lily had sacrificed. Harry had sacrificed. Even James had died for the greater good. But Severus Snape was merely the pawn through which the choice had been stripped from them, and as such had no claim to their sacrifice. Lily; he had no right to grieve for her loss, when it was his choice that doomed them. Harry needed to know the truth. Snape knew it was not going to be an easy conversation. "I… will think about it." He said.

"I've read Dumbledore's journals. I know his mind and his thoughts and arguments. I see him for what he was. He was a good man, but blind to his own faults and too confident in his choices. He had been told that he was the greatest wizard alive so often that he started to believe it himself. His conceit was that he assumed he was infallible." Ansgar shrugged. "Maybe I'm being too hard on him, expecting too much from him. Even he was only human, and we all make mistakes. Dumbledore played such an important role in events that his mistakes had vastly greater consequences, and I judge his mistakes more harshly because of that. But I tell you that I will not make the same mistake he did. I will never consider Harry to be a pawn, to be a sacrifice in place of myself or anyone else! He has the right to choose, not have his choice made for him. That is _why_ we are trying to send him back, not to fix the future, but to save the past. We have already lost everything we cherished in life. There's nothing in the future for us to save."

Snape sighed, but nodded. He too had lost everything. And even if they succeeded, he wouldn't get back what was gone. Lily. "I'll see to him." He said, standing to follow after Harry.

* * *

The wind was sharp and chilly, and Snape acknowledged it with a soft grunt as he went in search of Harry. Snape found him leaning against the small stone wall behind the hovel. Snape felt terribly uneasy, a deep seated dread in his chest was worming its way loose, burrowing through the painful emotions he had long ago sealed away inside his heart. He joined Harry, leaning against the cold stone. As soon as he came within five steps of the boy, the wind stopped and the air became comfortably warm. It was _scary_, how the boy's magic just did things. It truly seemed to have a mind of its own. They said nothing for several minutes.

Finally it fell to Snape to say something. He didn't have the patience of a brooding teenager to stand silently when so many important things needed done. "It's my fault." He said. "I was the one responsible for your parent's deaths. I was the one that gave the prophecy to the Dark Lord. It's because of me that he came for you, to destroy his prophesized rival while you were still an infant." Snape said, his chest clenching as the dread boiled over his mental walls.

"I know." Harry said. "Dumbledore showed me the memories of the interview with Trelawney. I knew you were there when the prophecy was given. The rest wasn't hard to guess."

"I was always a spy in the Dark Lord's ranks. From the very beginning I was a spy, before I ever took the Dark Mark upon my arm. Though I was not always a spy for Dumbledore."

Harry looked up at that. "Then why give Voldemort the prophecy?"

"What do you think the prophecy says?" Snape asked.

"That isn't something I can _ever_ forget. Trelawney made it. '_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…_' The first identifies me as the one who can defeat the Dark Lord, the next part says I'll have a power that he won't understand, and the last bit says that we must fight and one of us must die or both will perish." Harry sighed. "It seems pretty simple to understand. But it was a really awful destiny to be born into. You don't know how many times I wished it was someone other than me that had to face him."

"Be that as it may, that wasn't quite how the real prophecy was worded." Snape said.

Harry stared at him dumbly. "I watched it in a pensive. I saw Dumbledore's memories of it being given. How can that not be the real prophecy?"

"Dumbledore was a master manipulator. And although he was not a natural occlumens, he was strong enough to manipulate his own memories flawlessly. He created that scene for you to watch. Why do you think memories are not permissible as evidence in court? They can be faked. Even veritaserum doesn't work on a skilled occlumens. Although it prevents a lie, it doesn't prevent omission or misdirection. Dumbledore knew that Voldemort could steal knowledge from your mind. He couldn't risk giving you the real prophecy." Snape sighed. "I told you I was a spy, even before I joined Dumbledore. I didn't say who I was working for. I was an agent for my maternal grandfather, Grindelwald. Dumbledore knew, of course, and knew that his rival was safely ensconced away in Nurmengard. He did not begrudge his old friend whatever news I could bring him, or whatever small actions I took on his behalf."

Harry paused to take all of that in. "Then what was the real prophecy?"

"I really was expelled before Trelawney finished, but what I heard was clear enough. '_The One with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies… The One will be marked by the Dark Lord and be known by this mark, for it will mark The One as his equal… It is their fate to be in conflict, for neither can die while either yet lives, except by the hand of the other…_' There was more. At least three or four sentences. But Dumbledore threw up silencing and obscuration charms and Aberforth dragged me away."

"It sounded the same." Harry mulled, thinking it over. "Except for that last line. Can you repeat it for me?"

"Neither can die while either yet lives, except by the hand of the other." Snape repeated.

"So we were both immortal unless one of us killed the other?" Harry asked. Then the answer came to him. A simple revelation; a damning realization. "I wasn't meant to survive." He said numbly. "You gave Voldemort just enough of the prophecy that he would be forced to respond, knowing he would kill me, because as soon as he did he would lose whatever protection our destiny gave him that made him undefeatable."

"Yes. It was me! It was my fault! I was the one who told the Dark Lord. I chose to sacrifice someone for the greater good. I decided to condemn someone to death. But I didn't know who! The prophecy was given towards the end of August in 1979. You hadn't even been conceived yet! And I wasn't alone in my decision, although I take full responsibility for it. Dumbledore knew as well. We met quietly, and discussed how to use the information. Although he wasn't happy that I had it, he knew I could be trusted, to an extent. And I would need his help to make my ruse work."

"And Dumbledore went along with it?"

"Dumbledore never even questioned the necessity of it. He knew they were losing the war, and was just as desperate as anyone to decisively end the conflict. I told him that I would be passing the prophecy along to the Dark Lord, just enough so that he would target whoever it was. If the destined one was only just being born, we could not risk waiting until he grew up to face the Dark Lord. The ministry wouldn't last another three years, let alone twenty. Dumbledore sent Trelawney on to the castle. We had to keep her safe from the Dark Lord's reach, as we could not risk him forcing her to repeat the prophecy and destroying the opportunity it afforded us to entrap him. We would allow the Dark Lord to fulfill the prophecy, removing the destiny that made him immortal, and Dumbledore would destroy him. At the time I thought… I thought that one family's death was a small price to pay. I was foolish enough to believe it was for the greater good."

Snape felt all his anguish, his loss, and his self-loathing crash down upon him. He had suppressed it for years, hiding it behind the wall of hatred he harbored towards James Potter, a hatred he had inadvertently assigned to the man's son; to the child of Lily Potter née Evans. He cried, tears flowing freely for the first time in twenty years. As his emotions of misery faded and were washed away by his tears, they left only one thing behind.

Regret.

He had failed the one person he truly loved. He failed to cherish her friendship, failed to acknowledge his love to her, failed to protect her when she needed him most. And above it all he had failed to safeguard that which she left of herself in the world. He had failed her only child.

He deserved to suffer; deserved his lonely fate. He brought it on himself.

"I forgive you." Harry spoke softly.

Snape looked up, met his eyes. Green eyes that shone like emeralds in sunlight. Lily's eyes. "I don't deserve forgiveness. Not from you and not from her."

"But I give it to you anyway." Harry said. "Destiny is a fickle bitch. Fate is a cruel mistress. I was trapped between both, and you were just their tool. If it wasn't you, it would have been someone else. I can't hold that against you. Mum wouldn't either."

"I made the decision. It was my _choice_. And I choose to live with the consequences, to accept the blame. In the end, that's all that matters."

"Yet there was another memory I saw in Dumbledore's pensive. I saw you come to him, begging him to protect mum. To keep her safe."

"When I realized that the prophecy condemned her to death, I couldn't stand what I had done. But I couldn't stop it, either. If I told the Dark Lord the rest of the prophecy, he would know I had betrayed him and he might find a way to pervert the prophecy towards his own ends. I had hoped that Dumbledore could keep her safe. If she only… There was always the chance that the Dark Lord would target the other family, that Neville Longbottom was the child of prophecy. I had hoped that if Lily stayed out of his reach, that he would find his equal with their child, and she would be spared. Understand that at this time, I cared not at all for you or your father. Only Lily held my love, and even now I cannot help but hate James. If you must forgive me for my wrongs, forgive me for that, not for the actions I took which led to their deaths."

Harry shook his head. "Let's go back inside." He said. "I want to show you something my magic told me about. It will give you some perspective."

* * *

They returned to the room with the portrait of the founders and Harry nodded in acknowledgement to them and to Ansgar. Then he turned to the tapestry on the opposite side of the room. He had been beyond furious when his magic told him. He had just left the house and had asked the simple question Helga had suggested. 'Will the Slytherin family magic accept me as the head of house?' He thought to himself and his magic.

His magic's answer astounded him. _All of them would take you and cherish you._

'All of them?' He thought.

_You are the heir of magic, born to restore the balance. The founder's bloodlines merge in yours. Their family magic belongs to you, as you belong to us._

It made sense that the prophecy itself was predestined. It was said that a seer was only able to predict that which was preordained by fate; a seer witnessed the crossing of destinies, but not the outcome of their collision. He needed to know the answer.

"Helga." He said, grabbing her attention. "You knew my mother quite well. And you said that magic demanded a price from listeners, in order to obey their call as a wizard commands their magic. What price did magic demand of my mother?" He asked.

Helga took a moment to consider. "There were a bunch of minor things, little actions that had big results. Lily almost never knew why she was told to do something until after it was done. But she was like an arbiter trying to solve a crime by piecing together the evidence. She had dozens of theories about why she was asked to do certain things."

"Any examples?"

"Take Alice White and Frank Longbottom. Lily was once tasked by her magic with bringing bundles of sticks into the school and tossing them about the halls, while her magic made the branches grow into bloody enormous trees. The roots dug into the stonework and the canopy completely blocked the halls. It made a right royal mess and distracted the caretaker for most of the night cleaning up the mess. Alice and Frank got together for the first time that night, sneaking out of the tower and spending the whole night together in an abandoned classroom. There's no way they would have gone unnoticed except for the fact that the caretaker was occupied cleaning the mess. Incidentally, the hallways that led to their chosen classroom were all blocked off, which was what led Lily to suspect them as being the benefactors of her task."

And if magic had gotten two people together once before, could it have done so again? "Was there ever a price that involved my father?" Harry asked.

Helga looked a little sheepish. "Just one. In their fifth year, her magic asked her to forgive him." She said. "She was never really friends with him before then. He was always asking her out on dates, but she never took him up on the offer. She thought of him as a bully and a bad influence on the other students. She was particularly livid with him over a prank he played on a friend she had in Slytherin house. But a listener cannot just ignore their magic. She could have refused, but not without consequence. Magic obeys a listener, but the listener incurs a debt towards magic. A listener repays this debt by undertaking tasks to aid magic, to keep and maintain balance in the world."

"So what happened?"

"When your father next asked her to go on a date with him, she put aside her anger with him and forgave him for his past actions. She said yes. And he, in turn, showed himself to be a better man than he had been. She fell in love with him and he with her, and she was always grateful that her magic had helped her find that love. The last three years of your father's tuition at Hogwarts were nothing like the first four. He became a kind and respectful man, always willing to help others and very studious in his learning. He even made head boy."

So Harry had been right. Magic had been involved in his parents getting together. It was a thought that led to another, darker realization. His very existence was predetermined. Magic itself had decided that he needed to exist so that he could fulfill his destiny, and so one Harry James Potter had to be conceived. It didn't matter that until their fifth year his parents had hated each other; magic had demanded that the bloodlines each of them carried needed to merge. He was the result. Harry glanced at Snape, and saw his look of frustration and anger. Harry nodded at him, and knew that Snape also understood the significance of what was revealed. It was even possible that Snape's own actions, which caused his falling out with Lily, were compelled by magic trying to push Lily and James together. But who could rightly stand against magic?

'Is free will real?' He wondered. 'Are my actions my own? Did my parents find love in each other or were they compelled to be with each other?'

_Always a choice._ His magic sang in answer, hugging him in its tender embrace. _Can only help listeners to understand. Can make to know unnoticed choices. Show options not considered. But never choose for them. Mother was shown a choice she had not realized she could make. She chose to follow it. Choices matter. Who makes choices, matter. Free will inviolate. Magic forbidden from interfering with choice._

The tapestry on the wall showed the family lines of the founders. It had long since stopped updating. He walked up to it, tracing the lineages with his finger. He recognized none of the names. 'Show me.' He thought to his magic. 'Show me my family.'

His magic hummed. _Bleed upon the cloth._ It told him.

Harry didn't hesitate to pull out Dumbledore's wand and used the point of it to scratch the palm of his hand. Placing the cut against the fabric, he watched as a white glow spread outwards to encompass the tapestry. Small golden sparks and silver arcs of electricity burned outwards from the point where his hand was placed, and the lineages of the founders vanished. New words appeared, spreading out from beneath his hand, stained into the fabric with his blood. A pair of lines formed, one moving up and another down, then spiraling counterclockwise towards the edge of the tapestry. There were a series of dots along the lines, and at each dot they split into two more lines. Some branches faded away after a few steps, while others continued on, growing ever longer. Eventually all of them reached an end point. The last two, however, took much longer to get there. These had completed three orbits around the outermost edge of the spiral before finally ending.

Examining the dots more closely, Harry could see names. He removed his hand and stared. His hand was healed, but beneath it had been his own name. Above him was listed James Potter, below him was Lily Evans. He traced the line of his mother, following her back through her seventh generation grandparents before he found a branch that didn't end. Carefully tracing these two lines back three more generations, he reached a point where the second branch split again. Deciding to come back to that one, he followed the first line as it made a second orbit around the middle of the spiral. The names were meaningless to him, none of them people he had known or families he recognized. Until abruptly he found one he did. "Ravenclaw." He said aloud. "Rexius Ravenclaw." He looked to the founder's portrait behind him for answers.

"My elder brother. He was _Herr_ _Lendmann_ Ravenclaw, a Norse lord equivalent to a Baron." She said quietly. "He assumed the title when my father passed and we were both still young, and being a woman with no intention of being married off to one of his new peers, I took leave of my family and spent my life building the school."

"It seems I am related to you through one of his lines." Harry said with mild amusement. "Was he a wizard?" He asked.

"He had magic, but like most Norse he spurned it. Witchery was a woman's art, and had a bad reputation because of how effective it was against honorable warriors in battle. Magic was seen as inherently deceitful, and not to be trusted or relied upon. Of course the Norse had their own witches, often thralls taken in battle or children raised as slaves. They were compelled to use their magic for the benefit of their masters, and to protect them from hostile magic in battle."

"So I'm heir to the Ravenclaw line through your brother?" Harry wondered aloud.

"I never had children of my own, and my adopted daughter and heir never had any either." Rowena sighed. "So it makes sense that my line would revert to my brother and his heirs."

Harry nodded and traced the lineage forwards again, returning to the other line and the other split. That one led to Adrian Slytherin, who was the son of Salazar Slytherin. "Well you were right, Salazar." Harry said. "I'm descended from you through one of your son's bastard lines."

Salazar nodded. "The brat probably never even knew he left the girl with child." He spat. "He was a rapist and a blemish to my name. I named my daughter Meridian as my heir and she married into the Gaunt family. But with the extinction of that line, you would be my heir." He beamed at Harry. "I never thought anything good would amount from my son. I'm glad to be proven wrong."

Harry grinned back weakly before turning his attention back to the tapestry. The other split from that line went to a family called Nightingale. He had no idea who this family was, but the name had fallen out of use almost two hundred years before the founding of Hogwarts. The bloodline continued under the name Forrester, until merging with the Evans' line. The line for Nightingale could be traced back almost nineteen hundred years. The tapestry tracked each lineage back to the date of the creation ritual for a particular family's magic, but only for family magic that he had a claim upon. Any line that he had blood relation with but no claim upon the family magic faded away after one or two generations. It kept the tapestry neat and orderly, considering it went back several a thousand years. And he hadn't even reached halfway from the center of the spiral. "Anyone heard of a family named Nightingale?"

Ansgar snorted. "I assume you don't mean the famous nineteenth century nurse."

"I don't think this is any relation. The name was changed to Forrester in the nine-hundreds."

Snape shook his head and turned towards the portraits.

Godric shrugged. "I'm not familiar with the name, and my family has lived on these isles since the fall of Albion. Perhaps they weren't from any part of Britain?"

Harry nodded and began to trade his father's line. It split almost immediately with the Black family having a line of its own. He decided to stick with the main Potter line for now. Seven generations back it split again, with the split carrying the surname Gryffindor. He paused and smirked. "Found you, Godric." Harry said, reading the details beside the dot designating his ancestor. "It looks like your descendant was an orphan and got adopted into the Potter family. He didn't have a known surname when he was adopted so they just raised him as Godfrey Orphan. He… married his stepsister." Harry made a squeamish face. "And then took the Potter surname when he did so."

"That wasn't uncommon before the seventeenth century." Snape clarified. "An old family taking in a foundling with powerful magic and marrying the child into their house. A way of keeping their bloodline strong. Also a way of keeping the name going if the only heir was a woman. Pureblood ideology didn't start becoming what it is today until the later part of the sixteen-hundreds."

"Well Godfrey traces right back to Godric's firstborn son, Galahad Gryffindor." Harry mentions, his voice deadpanned. "This is getting ridiculous. I'll bet I'm related to you too." He says, glancing at Helga.

She smiled at him. "I'm quite certain you are of my blood, even if you aren't my heir. Galahad was my child as well." She explains. "Though the marriage agreement between Godric and myself was that the firstborn male would carry his line and the firstborn female would carry mine." Harry nodded and continued to trace the Potter line.

At eleven generations it split again, the branch belonging to the Peverell line. Harry skipped it and kept tracing his family name. At twenty-one generations back it split again, leaving Harry unsurprised. "And here you are, Helga." He said. "Your daughter, Harriet Hufflepuff, married to Pyker Potter."

"A shame neither of us lived long enough to see her marry." Godric sighed. "She came so late in our lives."

"After six boys," Helga retorted, "I deserved a little girl."

"That wasn't my fault!" Godric exclaimed.

"Of course it was." Helga insisted. "You knew I would keep trying until I got my daughter."

Godric hung his head. "It _was_ the perfect excuse." He muttered.

Harry toned out their friendly banter and turned his attention back to the tapestry. The Potter line continued to spiral outwards, and although there were a few more splits, most side branches ended in a few generations. Only one branch went back ten generations: the Le'Mortè line began in the first century (CE) and merged into the Potter line in the middle of the sixth. The Potters went back almost five _thousand_ years. The name changed thrice, with the first change to a Celtic form and then once to what Ansgar identified as Greek and finally to something else; a set of strange symbols which the tapestry translated for him. Ansgar thought_ that one_ had been Akkadian. They had been 'potters' of one sort or another for almost their entire history, and it was a _long_ history.

It was no wonder their family magic was considered to be so powerful. If every head of house who ever wore the ring had left a small piece of their magic behind when they died and added it to the family magic, the number of generations alone promised ridiculous amounts of power. That it was specialized for wards and runes was the only real limitation. It was only the first name in the line that didn't bear the surname Potter. The founder of the House of Potter was a man named Ares Furion Farseer. Ansgar was by no means an anthropologist, but he informed Harry that most early cultures gave people many names, and usually added more over time. His ancestor might have been born Ares and earned the name Furion and Farseer by emulating such traits as anger and forethought. Ansgar's best guess was that his or his son's profession had been a potter, resulting in the family name. Harry decided then and there that even if he made only one other claim, it would be the Potter family headship.

He turned his musings towards the Black line, which he had seen near the outermost edges of the spiral when he had been tracing the Potter line. So he already knew it was at least as old. There were a few early splits from the Black line, one branch called Eveningshade that merged into the Black line fourteen generations back and had its own beginnings in the third century (CE). Another major line was Praetor, which was founded in the sixth century (BCE) and merged with the Blacks in the second century (BCE). The Black line itself continued well into prehistory, with the name changing languages just as the Potters had. It first changed to Latin, and then to Phoenician, and finally to the same script as the Potters, which Ansgar once again insisted was Akkadian. It was a slightly longer line than the Potter line, but only by five or six generations; not more than two centuries. Like the Potters, the founder of the House of Black did not share his family's surname, though his last name was strikingly similar to the family name. His name was Zodiac Constellus Blackstaff.

"What about all of these dormant branches? All of these families have their own magic, I assume. Can I claim them as well?" Harry asked.

"I'm not sure you should." Ansgar told him. "If I understand such things, having multiple family headships can be a strain. The mantle of the family magic is a heavy burden in and of itself, but some family magic can cause a conflict with the family magic from other lineages. There is a reason why wizards don't claim more than one or two headships."

"It's a moot point. Without the rings there is no way for you to claim the headships to gain their family magic." Snape answered. "Of course if you find their rings you can try to claim them. It's something to ask the Goblins about when we visit Gringotts. Some of those families went extinct before the Goblins were responsible for banking, and their rings are likely lost forever, unless the family they merged into kept their rings."

The founders seemed agitated. Salazar spoke up. "We can summon our rings here. They are held in safekeeping and will answer our call."

"So I could take up the headships of the four founders then?" Harry wondered.

Salazar shook his head. "If nothing else, Rowena's would conflict with mine. Legilimency was an area my family magic specialized into, while occlumency was one of hers. They are not compatible. You would have to choose one or the other."

"What about the rest of you?" Harry asked. "What do your family magics specialize in?"

"Healing and charms." Helga answered unhappily. "It would likely conflict with the Black family magic that you already carry." She explained her sadness.

"Other than occlumency, my family magic leaned towards transfiguration." Rowena said.

Godric looked like he would rather not say anything, but spoke after Helga prodded him in the side. "Enchanting and virility." He muttered, blushing almost as red as his hair.

Snape started laughing at his embarrassment. "Virility, ehh? That explains the excessive number of Weasleys." He said. "They were descended from Godric's second son."

Seeing that Harry was also embarrassed, Ansgar decided to tease him a little. "You should take that one, Harry." He said. "It'll definitely help when you're bedding more than one girl." Ansgar had the pleasure of seeing Harry blush and look away, pretending to examine the tapestry once more. He smiled, and continued more seriously. "The enchanting will complement the Potter family magic when you take it up. Wards and runes are an integral part of applying magic to an object. Rituals can also play a role, which the Black family magic already specializes in. I think it's a good choice no matter what. The real question is whether you should take up Slytherin's ring or Ravenclaw's."

Salazar spoke up. "You can take up a headship while leaving the family magic dormant. You can also make one family magic subordinate to another, at the cost of severely weakening the benefits of their magic. This would allow you claim both the Ravenclaw and Slytherin family magic, and even take up Hufflepuff's ring."

"It isn't as simple as he makes it sound." Rowena said.

"It certainly isn't!" Godric said. He turned to Salazar. "I assume you mean for him to vassalize the families?" Salazar nodded and Godric turned back to Harry. "That would involve claiming the headship and essentially swearing fealty to another family, becoming their vassal. You would literally become your own vassal. That sort of thing was usually only done as part of a conquest by force or by a desperate house seeking protection of a greater. Such a bond goes both ways, and there are responsibilities of both lord and vassal, and you would be compelled to carry out both."

"What does that mean, exactly?"

"Vassal houses are expected to come to the aid of their liege house in times of trouble, and otherwise not go against their interests. The liege house can levy demands on the vassal, such as rights of marriage and calls to arms and collections of dues. The liege can also demand obedience of his vassals, and they must comply. There are some limitations on that, but essentially a vassal is a subject of their liege and is bound to their judgment. The family magic enforces this. The liege, in turn, is expected to look out for the wellbeing of his vassals. To protect them against attack and safeguard their interests; to see them flourish. Family magic warns the head of house when one of the family is harmed, urging them to protect the person who is threatened."

"Does such a thing exist within every family's magic?" Ansgar queried.

"This is a core part of the ritual that creates family magic. But where this becomes a problem is in the fact that the compulsion is transferred to the liege as well. This would be compounded since you would be both vassal and liege at once. Which means that if you made Godric's family magic subordinate to the Black family magic and a member of Godric's bloodline was attacked, you would feel the warning from _both_ the Godric family magic and the Black family magic. The compulsion to help the family member might be so strong it overrides your free will. In forcing you to protect a family member, it might make you kill someone who attacked them, even if doing so doomed the family."

"I take it such a thing has happened?" Harry asked.

"Yes." Rowena said. "It involved the Black family, actually. A member of the House of Mepis provoked a scion of the House of Black, and was injured in the resulting fight. His head of house arrived, and being both liege and vassal of the House of Mepis, the man found himself compelled to defend his cousin. The heir of House Black died, when a simple apology to him would have settled matters. The Black family declared a line war for the loss of their heir, and the House of Mepis no longer exists."

"Scary." Harry muttered. "But is that really a risk for me? How far back along the bloodline is would still be considered to be under protection of the family magic? Would they have to be in the same lineage as the vassal family?"

Salazar rolled his eyes. "You really are quite ignorant of common knowledge, aren't you?" He groaned, and then set about explaining. "Family magic touches every member of the family. Although the head of house commands it, every member can feel it. Women that marry into the family give up the magic of their birth family and take up the magic of their husband's during a marriage ritual. Adopted children are welcomed into the family with a similar ritual, usually as part of a blood adoption ritual to make them family by blood. Children born into the family gain the family magic while still in their mother's womb. All members of the family are connected through this shared magic. It aids all of them to some extent, and brings them closer together, helping them to feel each other's needs and comforting them. It might not provide the same boost to all members as it does to the head of house, but it does benefit them. The family head controls it, and can cast people out of the family, causing them to lose this connection, or welcome new members in, granting them its boon."

"It only passes to magical family members." Rowena thought it worth being mentioned. "Squibs never gain the family magic."

"So the only way there would be other members of any of your lineages is if it was a straight descendant without any squibs in between and not married into another family?" Harry asked.

"If they married into a family without family magic, then they and their descendants would still be part of the original family's magic." Rowena pointed out. "The original family's head of house normally doesn't allow that without demanding that they become fully part of the family and take up their name. Otherwise they are usually cast out."

"I realize that the tapestry only focuses on direct links to me and doesn't follow any of those links forward again, but I think it's safe to assume that I won't risk much by doing this." Harry said. "The last century has killed off two thirds of the magical population. And Voldemort targeted your bloodlines specifically. There really isn't much chance that they survived outside of myself. And I only exist because I'm a freak."

"Don't say that." Ansgar insisted. "You are _not_ a freak. You shouldn't think that way."

"But it's true!" Harry said, his voice like acid. "Magic needed a champion to fight against Voldemort, and no one else was up to the job, so it manufactured one. Me. All these bloodlines merging together, all this magical heritage falling to me; it was deliberately brought about so that I could fulfill my stupid destiny!" Harry spat. Maybe the Dursley's had been right all along. His destiny had resulted in the deaths of everyone he cared about.

His magic swirled and pulsed around him and held him in its warmth even as it chastised him. _Not your fault. Not a freak._ _You are the last hope. Hope to change past. Hope for new future. _It said, humming a warning. _Not alone. _It offered comfort. _Will be better soon. Will help to fix past. Will make better future._

That stopped him. "It knows what we're trying to do." He said aloud.

"What?" Ansgar asked.

"My magic. It knows we're trying to go back in time and it said it was going to help."


	4. Chapter 4

**_Author's Note: _****_It should be obvious, but I must declare that I own no rights to the Harry Potter story or any of its characters. All such ownership belongs to J. K. Rowling. Only characters of my own creation are not hers, and I reserve no rights upon them, so if they catch your fancy feel free to use them._**

* * *

Chapter Four:

Snape was deliberating what to do. It had been days since they had first met the founder's portraits, and despite several trips back to them and a plethora of new lines of inquiry, their research had not yet had any fruitful results. He had in his possession the fabled _Resurrection Stone_. He had retrieved it from the Dark Lord's body after the battle. The _Elder Wand_ was now Harry's by right, as he had slain the Dark Lord. He had taken the wand from the battlefield as well, but it made its displeasure known to him. An unpleasant feeling, to be sure; it would have betrayed him at the first opportunity.

The wand would probably have grudgingly worked for him, despite its hostility, since he had played a part in the fall of the Dark Lord. But as he hadn't caught it when the Dark Lord was disarmed, and it preferred its previous master to be killed before taking a new one, Harry was now the chosen master. He defeated and killed the Dark Lord, and the wand always favored the victor. Old magical artifacts like that were fickle things. Dumbledore mastered the wand because his defeat of Grindelwald was in a formal duel, with the stakes that the loser should 'give up their power' forever. The wand was Grindelwald's greatest source of power; the phoenix was Dumbledore's. Although Fawkes would never have joined Grindelwald, denying the use of the phoenix to Dumbledore had been worth the risk of the duel, in his grandfather's judgment.

Fawkes was still an unknown entity. He had not been seen since the headmaster's death, and the mystery of their bond wasn't known. Phoenixes were immortal, and it should not be possible for one to die. But the Dark Lord was sadistic enough to have made a point of destroying everything that represented Dumbledore. He always considered the headmaster to be his greatest threat. He might have used a ritual to bind or destroy the phoenix simply because of its connection to his enemy. The Dark Lord could be petty like that.

The difficulty Snape faced in his deliberation was that he no longer had enough magic to channel the _Resurrection Stone_. The only person who still could was Harry, and Harry already possessed the other two _Deathly Hallows_. To give him the third went against the dire warnings of both Dumbledore and Grindelwald. His grandfather had impressed upon him that the three _Deathly_ _Hallows_ should _never_ be united. It was a sentiment that Dumbledore had shared. The legend said that the possessor of all three would become the _Master of Death_. But what, exactly, did such a thing mean? The brothers Peverell supposedly bested _Death_ and each of them asked for a part of _Death's_ power as a boon for their victory. _Death_ granted their request, knowing that in the end it would reclaim them all. And it did.

The _Elder Wand_ is the _Touch of_ _Death_: the power to overcome. For _Death_ is patient and relentless, always conquering life in the end. The _Resurrection Stone_ is the _Call of_ _Death_: the power to sojourn. For _Death_ can visit anywhere and everywhere, surpassing all barriers. The _Cloak of Invisibility_ is the _Shadow of_ _Death_: the power to conceal. For _Death_ moves unseen and keeps many secrets, intangible and corporeal all at once. Could he risk giving the last _Deathly Hallow_ to Harry?

Did he dare to withhold it?

It could summon the spirit of Nicholas Flamel from beyond the veil of death to answer their questions. It could provide immense help in sending Harry back in time. And if the legend was more than just a children's story, it might give Harry the power to stand against the Dark Lord. Snape decided it was a necessary risk.

He would give the _Resurrection Stone_ to Harry.

* * *

Snape found Harry at Ansgar's lab, laboriously studying an arithmancy text. "Finally thought to exercise your mind?" He asked with a mock sneer.

Harry marked his place in the book and grinned up at him. "I find it makes a strange sort of sense, actually. I never considered taking arithmancy before, but this stuff really is amazing. I think I could craft my own spells, if I get a little further along."

"I thought you were trying to learn the family trade? What about runes and warding?"

"Runes aren't nearly as sane. In fact, they basically don't make sense."

Snape scoffed.

"I mean it!" Harry said. "The books say certain runes mean certain things and can be used in certain ways, but _why_ they work isn't understood at all."

"Why does it matter? Knowing what they do is all you need to know in order to use them."

"Because Ansgar is right, magic is about intention. When you work a spell, you focus on your intent and let loose your magic to make it happen." Harry said, and quickly continued to stave off Snape's retort. "Sure there's more to it than that, but the point is that intent always matters. A simple cutting charm could be used to remove a frayed string from my robes, but that same charm could also remove the head of an enemy, if cast with killing intent. If it was cast without killing intent, it would perhaps cut slightly and make them bleed. Very few magics are inherently deadly."

"Again, why does it matter? What does that have to do with runes?"

"Runes don't obey the laws of intention. They just are. They have a pre-defined meaning that is immutable. The rune for burning can't be used for mild warmth, only burning. If I charge the rune and pour water on it, the water boils away. If I put wood on it, the wood bursts into flame. If I put steel on it, it glows hot and melts, and if the charge lasts long enough it eventually boils. The heat generated by the rune is different in each case. It is always just enough to achieve the result of burning, and nothing more. Whatever my intention was when charging the rune is irrelevant to how the rune works."

"And what exactly is wrong with that? Runes are a language. They are symbols that have meaning. Just as a word has a definition. Why should they do something different? Are you not exercising your intent when you choose which rune to etch, or to initiate the charge with your magic? You have not removed intention; only put another medium of expression before it."

"But why that specific meaning? Why does this rune mean this thing and not that thing?"

"I don't know." Snape replied.

"And that's the problem. I tried making up my own language; my own runes. I invented them, so I decided what each of them meant, and pushed my magic into them. But they wouldn't hold the charge. The one actually exploded. So obviously there is more to runes than the language. There is some kind of missing link that translates magic into result, bypassing intent. And I don't know what it is or how to find it. The languages have changed over time. Most of the older runic languages no longer work, or only parts of them work. Certain runes have lost their potency or completely fail." Harry explained. "There is something that we're missing. Some key to how they work and why they function as they do. And I'm not smart enough to figure it out."

Although magical runes had their basis in the mundane writing systems of their time, they were distinctly different. The alphabets were not interchangeable and the letters in the magical versions were vastly more complex. It wasn't known who invented the writing first, but the mundanes had simplified their letters over time while the magicals maintained the complexity necessary for the runes to work with magic. Ancient runes, such as Akkadian, Babylonian, and Sumerian utilized cuneiform structures and dated back over five thousand years. Olden runes, such as Altaic, Arabic, Baltic, Celtic, Greek, Latin, Norse, Saxon, and Vandal all utilized a runic script and their age varied between one and three thousand years.

Harry continued. "The newer languages have far more working runes and fewer issues, but even they aren't as potent as they were purported to be two thousand years ago. I really want access to my family grimoire. If my family was specialized towards runes and wards, they must have known the secret to understanding them."

"Have you tried simply asking your magic? It seemed more than willing to answer anything you asked of it before."

Harry favored Snape with a pointed look. "Yes." He said. "And it said that each rune symbolizes a different primal force, and is shaped by the association this symbolism creates. But it won't, or maybe it can't, explain what those primal forces are. The best answer I got was that everything is somehow connected to them, and the runes are just a refined means of tapping into this connection." Harry was intimidated. Runes were something he couldn't seem to understand and it was driving him spare.

Snape didn't really have anything to contribute to that, so he left it alone. "So you think you'll be able to make your own spells?" Spell crafting was not something to be done lightly. Many geniuses and even more fools had died attempting to create new spells.

Harry nodded, once again confident. "The number and shape of the wand strokes, the syllables and phonetics of the incantation, these are just tools to make focusing the intent of the caster easier. The somatic and verbal components aren't necessary if the caster is focused enough on their own. A first year couldn't hope to do such a thing, because using magic from a magical core is like working a muscle. It starts weak because it's never been used, but gets stronger with repeated exercise. A further distinction is that different types of magic, and even individual spells of the same type, must follow a specific path in order to work. The caster's intention is what shapes this path, and as the magic flows along it, the path is carved deeper into the caster's magical core, like a river digging out a valley."

"What does that mean?"

"It's why some spells are too difficult for younger years to cast. Not that they don't have the requisite magic, because they do, but that they don't have the ability to use it. Many of the more advanced spells rely on pushing magic through multiple paths, and if those paths aren't well established in the caster's magical core, it won't work. Furthermore, since the magic carves those paths out, it creates a path of least resistance. Just like my analogy of a river, it makes a valley where water, or in this case magic, will naturally flow into. Spells become easier to cast the more you use them, but as a side effect, magic that use a path close to an established one might be diverted into it, altering or hindering the effects of the spell. Some spells might not even be possible to cast after certain paths are too firmly established. There really is such a thing as dark magic, and all of it is invariably harmful to the caster. It violently burns a path for the magic to flow through and damages the caster's ability to use their magic normally. That doesn't even touch on the side effects."

"So if someone used a summoning charm all the time, every day, eventually they would stop needing the wand movements and incantation to cast the spell?"

"Yup. If they really forced their magic into it for long enough they could probably give up the wand, too. It would shape their magical core towards the casting of that particular spell. That's why the really old witches and wizards could only cast a few handfuls of spells. They were casting them without wands and without aids to their focus, so they had to carve the path into their cores. This actually prevented them from learning more, since their magic could only flow along those particular spell paths. If they stopped using such a spell for a long time, such as a few years, their core would heal and they could learn something else. Having said that, they were incredibly powerful with whatever spells they specialized in. More than anyone today could hope to compare with."

"The student becomes the teacher." Snape muttered. More loudly he continued. "I never knew it was so easy to learn wandless magic or that there was a cost to doing so. I don't know if the price would have been worth it, but I would have been pushing myself to magical exhaustion every day until I could do it if I had known it was possible. Being able to use a wandless summoning charm to recover a lost wand or throw an opponent off balance would have been invaluable. Dumbledore only said it required an absurd amount of focus and not a little desperation for him to use. I wonder if he knew the truth."

"I couldn't answer that." Harry replied. "But being a listener, I have different issues. Helga explained most of it to me, but there are some things even she didn't understand. Magic is more or less loaned to me, in exchange for favors. I accrue a debt when I use magic, and it can call it in at any time and demand that I comply. I become a tool that magic uses to keep balance in the world. I can refuse, but if I do my magic will probably leave me forever. That said, I can apparently earn the loyalty of some magic. If I do, that magic may choose to willingly bind itself to me. Unlike a normal witch or wizard where their magic is enslaved to them and bound in their magical core, this is more like having it swear to be my vassal and choose to reside inside me. Like the family magic does. If I do something that convinces magic to do that with me, I can call on it whenever I need. But it isn't compelled to stay and won't if I violate the vassalage, and the seal upon my magical core is forever breached. It can never again contain unwilling magic."

"You say that as if the magic inside every witch and wizard is alive. I thought that was something unique to what you and your mother did with your magic." Snape asked.

"It is sort of, but then again not. Every piece of magic, everywhere in the world, is both an individual and a collective. As a collective the magic is semi-sentient and partly aware, but as an individual it has no notion of such things. It has individual feelings, maybe a little more if it is really old or really powerful or a bit more if it's both. But individual magic doesn't really have will and desire; it doesn't have purpose. Even as a collective it exists more as a force of balance, and sometimes not even that."

"Explain." Snape demanded.

"I would say that it doesn't care if there is evil as long as there is good to keep the balance, but that isn't quite true. It doesn't discern between good and evil. There is no distinction that says this person acts for good or that person acts for evil. Their intentions might lean one way, while the results of their actions lean the other. And when I say balance, I don't mean between good and evil. Again, magic doesn't _care_ about such human distinctions. It only cares about the balance between existence and non-existence. Magic is a fundamental force that serves to maintain existence itself, to preserve it in perpetuity and protect it against anything which would threaten it. And there _are_ things that threaten existence: outsiders that would devour or destroy creation itself if allowed to do so. If I had to describe magic, I would say that it is neutral but not non-participatory. It helps and hinders both sides of the good and evil conflict, using them to keep the outsider forces in check. But there are some lines that it will never allow to be crossed; some things that so grossly upset the balance of existence that they demand retaliation and direct action, even against a non-outsider. What Voldemort did, sterilizing the world, it brought down a judgment from magic itself."

"And so now magic abandons the world to die." Snape said.

"No." Harry said quietly, his voice trembling slightly. "It fights for us to live."

Snape stared at him, waiting for him to elaborate.

"I've been having dreams… visions really. My magic is trying to show me things, trying to prepare me or help me understand. Magic isn't abandoning the world as punishment. It's losing the fight against the outsiders. Voldemort did more than we knew possible with his ritual. I think the sterilization was just a side effect. I think this was his intention all along. Magic is leaving the world because it needed to bolster the defense. And it still isn't enough."

Snape took a seat, almost falling into it. "And you say the Dark Lord did this intentionally?"

Harry nodded. "I think he wasn't even human anymore." He explained. "He made horcruxes, and every time he did, it split his soul in half. One would be bad enough, but he did more, and probably went for a magically significant number. We found four, so we assume he went for either seven or thirteen pieces. I use percentages to make the math easier. Half is fifty percent, and half of that is twenty-five percent. Following that pattern, if he made six horcruxes, plus his physical body, it would create seven pieces of his soul. That would mean that in his body he would have zero-point-zero-one-five percent of a soul. That's slightly more than a hundredth of a percent. Nature abhors a vacuum. All that empty space in his soul was just inviting something else to take its place. Something from outside creation. And given how little there was left of Voldemort at that point, it had considerable influence on his actions."

"What fools!" Snape groaned. "What fools we were to follow such a madman!"

Harry could only nod.

"And magic is fighting to keep these 'outsiders' from destroying us all?" Snape demanded.

"Yes, from what I can tell. And we're losing." Harry sighed. "I can't give a definite answer, but we don't have very long to figure this out. Certainly not a decade, and maybe not even a whole year."

That decided it for Snape. He withdrew the _Resurrection Stone_ from his pocket and held it out to Harry. It glowed softly in his hand; more than it had ever done before, as though being near to Harry was enough to make the _Stone_ excited.

Harry reached out hesitantly, stopping just short of touching it. It pulsed once, the white light fading back to a dull glow after a moment. "What is it?" Harry asked, looking up at him.

"It's called the _Resurrection Stone_ and it is one of the three _Deathly Hallows_." Snape told him. "It is supposed to have the power to recall the spirits of the dead. I'm hoping you can use it to call for Flamel. Then we can ask the one who actually did this before, how it was done!"

Harry nodded and brushed his fingers over the _Stone_, and Snape could _feel_ its magic sing. As Harry lifted the _Stone_ from his hand, Snape felt the outpouring of magic. Harry had closed his eyes and looked as though he was experiencing a moment of rapture. He had a stupid grin on his face and his hand had clenched into a tight fist around the _Stone_. An intense glow was escaping from between his fingers, and the air became suddenly thick with magic. "It's singing." Harry sighed. "The magic is singing." He said.

As if _that_ made any sense at all. Snape huffed, impatient. "Ansgar!" He shouted towards the back of the lab. "Hurry over here!"

Ansgar promptly abandoned his experimental research and came to see what the commotion was about. "Evening Severus." He said. "What's the fuss?"

"I just gave Harry the fabled _Resurrection Stone_ and he's acting like he's been dosed with a euphoria potion." He said simply.

Ansgar yawned. "What's the _Resurrection Stone_?" He asked.

"One of the three _Deathly Hallows_, said to grant the bearer the power to summon the spirits of the dead. I was hoping that we could call Flamel to aid our research."

"That's brilliant!" Ansgar said, instantly in good cheer. He turned to Harry, who was blinking rapidly, still grinning like an idiot. "Can you do it Harry?" He asked.

Harry seemed to pause, thinking to himself. 'Or talking with his magic.' Snape thought. He wasn't privy to either side of those conversations, and it frustrated him immensely.

Finally Harry nodded. "I can do it." He said. He held his arm out before him, palm up, with the _Stone_ resting in his hand. It was still glowing, but the light intensified in a sudden burst, and the _Stone_ turned three times in his hand. All of a sudden the lights flickered and died, leaving only the glow from the _Stone_. It pulsed again and the glow took solid form, revealing the ghostly outline of a man who appeared as old as Dumbledore had when he died. A neatly trimmed beard framed a gaunt face, and colorless eyes fixed piercingly on Harry.

"Why have you called me, necromancer?" The spirit demanded with a grimace.

"Are you Nicolas Flamel?" Ansgar begged.

The spirit nodded once, never looking away from Harry. "I was known as Nicolas Flamel in life." He replied. "Why have you called me?"

Harry hesitantly answered him. "We need your help." He tried to explain. "The world is dying and we need to go back in time and fix it! You did it once, in your life. We have your journals, but they don't tell us _how_!"

"It pains me to be here." The spirit said. "If I tell you, will you release me?"

"Yes, absolutely." Harry said instantly. "I'm sorry you're hurting. I don't want to hurt you at all. We're just desperate!"

"I am not unaware of your plight, or your intentions." The spirit said. "You need to draw an alchemy circle by the position of the stars. Use it to specify the location in time you intend to go to. It needs a massive magical anchor for the ritual; I used Stonehenge when I went back. You also need to use the Philosopher's Stone to pay the cost of the alchemy."

"A Philosopher's Stone!" Ansgar all but cried. "How? We'll never be able to make one. Why is it needed?"

It turned from Harry for the first time to face Ansgar. "The first rule of alchemy is _equivalent exchange_. In order to obtain or create something, something of equal value must be lost or destroyed. The Philosopher's Stone doesn't make the elixir of life or change lead into gold; alchemy does! The Philosopher's Stone negates the need for equivalent exchange. You'll never be able to pay the cost of the alchemy without it." The spirit turned back to Harry. "I have given you the information you need. Release me as you promised." It wasn't begging, but it did have a hint of desperation in its words.

"I release you." Harry said. At once the glow from the stone contracted upon itself and the spirit of Nicolas Flamel vanished. Harry sighed heavily, clearly exhausted. A chair slid across the floor and settled behind him just as he collapsed backwards, catching him comfortably. "Thanks." He muttered before closing his eyes and seemingly falling asleep in an instant.

'He was thanking his magic.' Snape realized. "Don't worry about the stone." He told Ansgar, who was busy panicking.

"Don't worry!?" Ansgar sputtered, then ignored him and turned back to his research notes, throwing a pile on the floor in a bout of uncontrolled anger. "How can you be so calm? 'Don't worry.' He says. As if that will solve anything! We need something that is impossible to obtain! We've failed before we even began; we were just ignorant of it! The whole attempt was all just a cosmic joke! I thought I could save my daughter! I thought I could save my wife!"

The normally calm muggle was bitter and infuriated. "Ansgar." Snape said. "Get a hold of yourself, man! We haven't lost yet. And this is just more evidence that we were fated to do this." He looked at the sleeping form of Harry. "I just can't believe the ridiculous number of coincidences in that boy's life. But there are so many that I shouldn't be surprised at one more. We don't need a Philosopher's Stone. Harry _is_ the Philosopher's Stone. It happened at the end of his first year, when he fought the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord went after the Philosopher's Stone, which was held in safekeeping at Hogwarts. Quirinus Quirrell had allowed the Dark Lord to possess him to gain access through the wards. Harry went to stop him, and somehow ended up with the Stone. The Dark Lord tried to take it from him, but Lily's magic protected him from harm, and somehow banished the Dark Lord. Quirrell died in the process, and the Stone disintegrated in a burst of magic and was assumed to be destroyed. But it wasn't. It was absorbed into Harry's blood and bonded with his own magic. We could have retrieved it, but doing so would have killed Harry. The Flamels agreed to leave it be and die peacefully in exchange for us swearing never to tell Harry. It really is _fate_." Snape spat the word like the acid it was. "He's trapped in his destiny. I do hope he lives long enough to escape it and find happiness."

Ansgar had no words at all, shocked to utter silence by Snape's revelation. Snape grinned like a shark: a victorious and satisfied predator. He almost never got the muggle to shut up.

* * *

Harry woke early the next day and was informed of yet another aberration in his life. Snape claimed that the _Philosopher's Stone_ was somehow a part of him, and had been since the end of his first year. It really shouldn't surprise him anymore. He was _Harry James Potter_! The boy of destiny: marked by prophecy, sealed by fate, chosen by magic! At this point it was _normal_ for him to be the center of the maelstrom. He _expected_ to find himself in these situations. The universe conspired against his life being anything that resembled ordinary.

Regardless, they had changed the focus of their research into designing an alchemy circle for the ritual. Alchemical rituals were more a science than an art, unlike magical rituals where intention mattered more than precision. An alchemy ritual needed to be perfect, or it just wouldn't work. Sometimes it even went bad, like a potion brewed improperly. The comparison to potions was apt, since Snape seemed to have a natural affinity for designing alchemy circles. It didn't even take Ansgar five minutes to figure out how to map the stars to the location in time they were aiming for. Apparently being a former rocket scientist carried an advantage when working with star positions. That was how it defined time, by the position of celestial bodies. Apparently stars move over time, the constellations shifting as the galaxy rotated and the solar system moved around the center. This drift could be calculated and measured, and when combined with planetary positions could provide a date with a margin of error of about a year.

In a way it was brilliant. The positions of the stars were literally _never_ the same twice. By using them as a frame of reference, there could be no mistake. It would need to be performed on a cloudless night to enhance the power the stars lent to the ritual, and preferably on a solstice. If Harry had to be naked for it, as Ansgar had been delighted to inform him, he wanted the summer solstice to be the target; attempting a dangerous alchemical ritual while shivering uncontrollably was not a good decision.

The stars had always caused an impact on magic. It was why astronomy was a required course at Hogwarts. If the light of the stars reached the earth, it would affect any spell cast or ritual performed. But the stars only affected things if they were bright enough to be seen with the naked eye. Which was why the telescopes used in astronomy were so pathetically bad compared to their muggle counterparts; they didn't need to be better. They had been discussing which stars to use as an anchor for their intended time for the last two hours. He had been telling Ansgar about the various magical significances behind certain stars and constellations, with Snape contributing a comment or two every once in a while, when Ansgar suddenly had an epiphany.

"Stargate! How the hell could I have missed it?" Ansgar exclaimed. "I've only seen the movie a dozen times!" He berated himself. He was furiously sorting through a pile of papers, pulling out a handwritten copy of the Ancient Runic Alphabets. "The letters are constellations!"

He set the alphabet side-by-side with the constellation diagram they were working with to design the alchemy array and Harry leaned closer to see for himself. Ansgar pointed out three matching symbols, and then several other closely matching ones.

"I'll bet we can find a matching constellation for every character of these alphabets." He said. "They're thousands of years old and the stars shift over time. That's why they don't match perfectly. I bet that's why some runes still work and others don't." He explained.

This was exactly the answer Harry needed to find a solution to his rune problem. He quickly retrieved the book he had been reading. "The _History of Ancient Runes_ says that the first sorcerers used a now forgotten ritual to witness the shape and form of magic, and used those symbols to create their written languages, which became the first runic alphabets. But if the characters of their languages were based on stellar constellations, the magic might be bound to the shape of the constellation rather than as it was originally written." He was proud of himself for coming up with such an explanation.

"I don't think such a universal format is a coincidence. All of these cultures sharing the same base to their written language because of geographic proximity is one thing, but some are separated by too much time and distance. For whatever reason, magic is bound to the shape of the stars. The languages arose afterwards, to take advantage of the magic." Ansgar paused as a sudden idea flashed through his thoughts. "I never thought to look up!" He exclaimed. "What time is it?" He demanded.

"Quarter to midnight." Snape sighed, wondering if this latest revelation would bring about another all-nighter. Ansgar shot out of his chair with startling haste, grabbing the Magicka Ocularis out of his desk and bolting out the front door. Harry quickly followed his friend out into the cold air. Snape sighed again and got up, taking the time to close the desk drawer that Ansgar had left open before following the two of them outside.

Ansgar was holding the Magicka Ocularis over his head, looking through it at the stars that shined in the clear night sky. Harry crept closer and brought his face near Ansgar's shoulder to share the view.

It was spectacular. Lines of magic pulsed faintly, glowing bands of color connecting groups of stars. The whole sky was filled with thousands and thousands of symbols. The Magicka Ocularis revealed their colors, and therefore the nature of magic each symbol related to, though only experimentation would show what each one did. It was a discovery that would have forever changed the magical world, had they not already been doomed. Even Snape recognized the significance of the moment. What they had just discovered would have had an impact on the scale of the founding of Hogwarts.

* * *

It was three weeks later, while laboring over research materials in Ansgar's lab, that they received a reply from Gringotts. They had an appointment for later that day. While Harry's magic may have allowed disapparation, neither Ansgar nor Snape were willing to risk it, let alone the trouble it would have caused them if the Wizarding World discovered that their savior could still use advanced magic while they were losing the ability to use even minor charms. It wasn't worth the risk. They could have ridden brooms, but it was getting cold, and while warming charms wouldn't have been an issue for Snape, the notice-me-nots to conceal their flight would've been as much an issue as disapparation. In the end Ansgar called a friend in the government, who apparently owed him a favor.

A really, _really_ big favor.

The military helicopter landing outside was proof that his friend was good for what he owed. Harry could only guess how that had been managed. Ansgar's friend must have a lot of pull inside the government. A pair of royal marines dismounted and stood at attention while an officer stepped down the short ladder.

Harry didn't recognize the rank, but Ansgar apparently knew the man. He stepped up and gave him a firm hug and a pat on the back.

"Benson!" Ansgar greeted. "It's good to see you. I thought you said you were sending someone? I didn't know you were coming yourself!"

"You hinted that it was important but didn't want to say anything over the line, so I thought I'd escort you to London myself and we can talk on the way." Benson explained. The officer looked at Snape and then at Harry, taking both of them in. His eyes fixed on Harry. "So you're Harry Potter?" He asked.

Harry nodded, wondering how the man knew him. "That's me."

"I've been involved in keeping tabs on your world for the last thirty years." He answered the unspoken question. "I know all about you and the wars you people have been fighting. Far too much of it has spilled over onto our side of things." He said with distaste.

"I've spent the last six years fighting the ones who hurt innocents." Harry met his gaze unflinchingly.

Benson barked a laugh. "That's an understatement." He sighed, offering his hand. "On behalf of Her Majesty, please accept my thanks." Harry took his hand and shook it. "Your efforts kept the enemy too busy to bring his forces against us, and if I am to believe the reports that came from my counterpart in France, you are responsible for _his_ defeat."

"I had a lot of help." Harry insisted.

"My name's Benson, and while I still hold the rank of Commodore in Her Majesty's Navy, I work exclusively with Counterintelligence handling incidents involving magic."

"It's good to meet you, sir." Harry replied. "You already know me and Ansgar." He turned and waved towards Snape. "This is Master Snape, the foremost potions master in Europe."

"A pleasure to meet you." Benson said, offering his hand. "Though from what I've heard you're more in my kind of work than brewing potions."

Snape looked at him with distrust, but took his hand regardless. "Indeed." Was all he offered.

"Well, why don't we get onboard. I don't want to make you late for your meeting."

Harry wondered just how much this mundane knew, and how much Ansgar had told him.

* * *

It was a long trip, taking almost an hour. Benson already knew that magic was the cause of the worldwide sterility, and hadn't pulled his punches about how angry it made him. He felt that the magical governments weren't doing enough to find a solution, and was worried that even if they succeeded, they might not be inclined to share. Harry offered what assurances he could, which wasn't much; the general guilt felt by the magical community would see at least an effort made to distribute any cure to the mundanes. Harry wasn't sure how much he could trust the man, and was holding off telling him about their plan to travel back in time, when Ansgar decided to explain everything. Harry sighed, readying himself to call on his magic if there was a problem. Snape wouldn't be much use in a straight fight.

He needn't have worried. Benson took the information in stride, and said that it was a good backup plan if things went to hell. He offered whatever support his office could arrange, seeming to have total faith in Ansgar. Harry had to wonder what Ansgar used to do for the British government, if they were willing to trust him with such _carte-blanche_. Ansgar was a _scientist_, not a spy or a military officer. Harry didn't know what to think. Snape saw Benson as a fellow spy, and treated him with such careful diplomacy that he never really said anything at all. Benson seemed to find this amusing.

Then the helicopter ride was over, and they set down at a landing pad on a corporate office building's roof. Benson told them he was going to contact his superiors and not to worry if he had to leave; their ride would be there for them when they were done. The elevator ride to the ground floor took a further three minutes. The mundane side of London seemed tense. People still went about their business, but the overlying dread and uncertainty was everywhere. The public was worried, and the sensationalist media was only riling their emotions.

They reached the Leaky Cauldron, and if the mundane side of things had been tense, the magical side was fearfully desperate. The slightest thing might set off a riot, and most of the wizards present in the pub were there for the comfort of whiskey and hard liquor, rather than to socialize or shop. The barkeep Tom had no less than three Deputy Aurors on hand to control the crowd. It wouldn't be enough if violence broke out, but it was enough of a deterrent to stop it from happening. Harry had pulled up his cloak before stepping through the door, and Snape had done the same, keeping between himself and Ansgar. Snape was more than a little concerned about coming here, fearing that the mob would attack him on sight for his former role as a Death Eater under Voldemort. Harry didn't doubt his fears anymore; the people were looking for anything to vent their frustrations on, and would undoubtedly use Snape if given half a chance.

They passed through the Cauldron and into Diagon Alley without issue. The streets were half deserted, with only a few people shopping, and fewer stores open for business. The goblins had at least fifty troops stationed outside their bank, in full battle regalia. Gringotts was ready for war. Not a promising development. There had been rumors for months that the goblins would rather see their race die in battle than pass quietly from the world. Harry hoped that wasn't the case, as he knew nothing that he could do to stop it, and didn't want more senseless violence.

The guards stepped forward, halberds coming down to point at them as they approached. Harry stepped forward; they had agreed that Harry would do all the talking. "We're coming to do business with Gringotts." He stated.

"Gringotts is closed, wizard!" A goblin with a golden collar spoke. "We make ready for war!" A cheer came from the goblin warriors around him.

"We were invited." Harry said, as calmly as he could manage. He reached into his robe pocket to retrieve the letter they received that morning. The guard nearest to him panicked and thrust his halberd forward, the point of it lined up with Harry's throat. Snape pulled him back just in time, and then a sudden surge of power thick enough to charge the air heralded the awakening of Harry's magic.

_He is __**MINE**__! _His magic sang out in unrelenting fury. The goblins all felt it, even if they didn't understand. They shrieked in fear, cowering back to avoid the backlash from the angry magic. The lone guard that had provoked his magic was not lucky enough to get away. Harry watched in morbid fascination as his magic _twisted_ around the small creature, lifting it into the air and lashing out against the one who had offended it. The goblin hissed and screeched in pain, before falling to the ground unconscious and twitching.

The collared goblin stepped up, sneering at his injured brethren. In one swift motion he pulled the sword from his belt and beheaded the fallen guard. Harry sighed, because _fucking_ goblins… He knew there wasn't any point in trying to intervene. It wasn't in them to be merciful towards one another, let alone at the behest of a wizard. At least his magic settled down, seemingly appeased by the brutality of the goblin in charge. Harry finished what he had started only moments ago, and pulled the letter from his pocket. "We have an appointment." He said again, thrusting the letter forward.

The goblin in charge stepped up to take the letter, glancing over it briefly. "Let them pass!" He shouted, and the guards raised their halberds to rest the ends against the ground, and stood aside so that they had a path into the bank. The goblin sneered again before handing back the letter. "Get about your business quickly and leave." He commanded.

Harry ignored him, knowing that responding would only make him seem weak, and instead strode forward into the bank. Binns _had_ managed to teach him something about dealing with goblins after six years. Ansgar and Snape followed closely behind.

* * *

The lobby was guarded by another fifty or so goblins and six trolls. The trolls were outfitted in steel plate chest pieces and helmets, with steel chain links on their arms and legs. They were poorly fitted, but since the metal was probably goblin steel, it hardly mattered. It likely wasn't intended to withstand physical assault, but was meant to augment the troll's natural magical resistance to absurd levels. The letter directed them to inquire for the goblin 'Rag' at the counter. Harry approached the teller's desk with the others close behind.

A single goblin manned the counter, and looked down on them imperiously. "What business do you bring before Gringotts?" He demanded.

"We were invited to a meeting with Rag." Harry replied.

The teller looked at him for a long moment, his black eyes little more than beads behind his furrowed brow. "I will see you through." He said at last.

Harry nodded without speaking. He would not thank the goblin for doing its job. Thanking the goblin was another sign of weakness, and it was disrespectful to thank someone for doing a task they were entrusted with doing.

The goblin stepped out from behind the counter and led them away from the lobby, down a long hall with several side passages. There was at least one troll stationed at each junction along the hall, and many more goblins besides. "Through here." The goblin gestured at a tall iron door. "Warchief Ragnarök Gringott will be with you shortly." He smiled wickedly as he left them.

Harry pulled the door open and stepped inside, finding a long table with several human proportion chairs at one end and raised goblin chairs at the other. He sighed as the tension left him. "I can't believe the goblins are really getting ready for war. This is the last thing we need."

Snape shook his head. "They're all bloodthirsty mongrels." He spat. "And they sense weakness. They know the wizards are losing their magic, the same as them. But a goblin without magic is still dangerous, while a wizard without magic is unable to offer much resistance."

"Did you catch what he said when he left?" Ansgar asked.

Harry nodded. "The Warchief. That's who our meeting's with. Ragnarök Gringott, leader of the Gringotts battleclan."

"What does that mean for us?" Ansgar wondered.

Snape snorted. "It means we'll have our chance to convince him to help us, and if he agrees we'll have everything we could want from the goblins. But it also means that if he declines to aid us, we'll never leave this room alive."

Ansgar paled. "Why would they kill us?"

"Because we know they have a Warchief." Harry said. "All that stuff outside was just posturing. The goblins have done it plenty of times before now, closing the bank to protest a law or to inconvenience a powerful wizard that earned their ire; marching their army around to show their strength. But it's different if the clans united under a Warchief. There _will_ be a war."

"Won't we still tell the rest of the wizarding world if we do get out?" Ansgar asked.

Harry shook his head. "The only way we'll be leaving is if the Warchief likes our plan enough to draft us into his army."

A new voice cut through any other question Ansgar might have been ready to ask. "Indeed wizard." The goblin entering the room wore brightly shining battle armor with a gold trim and a crown of broken and jagged dragon's teeth was fixed upon his helmet. He looked old, but moved with a strength and vigor that seemed much younger than his appearance. "So make your case quickly and plainly. I have much to do and my time is too valuable to waste here." He flashed his sharp teeth in a vicious smile.

Harry made his case. "Both our races have been doomed by the actions of Voldemort. We have a plan to undo the damage that was done."

"Our greatest thaumaturgists have examined the effects of the ritual and found it irreversible. Lie to me again and you will die before you finish speaking." Ragnarök rebuffed, looking down at the paperwork in front of him and pointedly ignoring them to scratch away at the parchment with a quill.

Harry swallowed. "Perhaps I misspoke. We intend to prevent it from ever coming to pass."

The goblin set his quill down and looked up. "Explain."

"We are attempting to send me back into the past. To a point in time before Voldemort was resurrected. We hope to stop his return, or failing that, end the war much sooner."

"Why you?" Ragnarök demanded. "Why not another? Could you not send a goblin instead?"

Ansgar spoke. "No. His magic is the key to the whole thing. He is the _only_ one who can do it, and at this point it doesn't appear that we'll be able to send anything with him."

"Such a thing has been considered beyond even the greatest of wizards for as long as magic has existed. It is certainly beyond the power of goblins. How will you be able to accomplish this? Have you not lost your magic as well?" His stare bore into Harry, judging him.

"I set my magic free to destroy Voldemort in the last battle."

"At the château du Haut-Kœnigsbourg?" The goblin clarified.

Harry nodded. "Even though I set it free, it didn't leave me. It's still here. It's… alive. And it promised to help us do this."

The goblin breathed softly. "Listener." He whispered. More loudly, he continued. "Assuming I grant you conscript status in my army, what is it you require of the goblins to see this done?"

Harry looked at Ansgar and Snape. Receiving a nod from both he turned back to the Warchief. "I need to claim the Potter family headship. I'll also benefit from access to the Potter family vaults. There are family grimoires containing knowledge that will help us in this task, both to send me back and defeat Voldemort once I arrive."

"You are considered a squib." Ragnarök stated bluntly. "By ancient law you are forbidden from withdrawing money or heirlooms from family vaults. That is not something the ministry enforces, or I would simply ignore their law and give you access. It is a law that is upheld by the very magic which protects the vaults. I cannot circumvent it."

"I can." Harry told him.

Ragnarök looked at him sharply. "Bragging that you can so casually overcome our greatest defenses does not endear me to you or your cause."

"My apologies, Warchief, I meant no disrespect towards yourself or the goblins."

"I will have you escorted down to your family vaults. You may attempt to overcome the protections. If you succeed, consider yourself drafted, and you can help yourself to anything in your family vaults. None of it matters anymore. If you fail…" He grinned savagely.

"I never fail." Harry smiled right back, utterly confident in his success.

"Good. Then I have a task for you, should you succeed in going back."

* * *

"Were you _trying_ to get us killed?" Snape snapped. "You are an arrogant fool! Insulting the Warchief wasn't enough for you; _you_ had to act like a conceited child."

"That was hours ago. And we left the room alive." Harry informed him, as though he wasn't aware of the fact. "I think Ragnarök likes me." He said with a grin.

Ansgar agreed. "He didn't seem as enthusiastic about the prospect of your death as most of the goblins have been since we got here."

"And that makes _such_ a difference!" Snape said. "He'd have killed us just as dead if he wanted. And you were _provoking_ him!" He accused Harry.

"Pish posh." Harry said. "He was pleased with me. He liked that I was confident."

They arrived at the vault level, the mine-cart they were in slowed down with five jerking brakes, before coasting to a stop. The goblin that had brought them here stepped out. "If you conscripts would just shut up and get on with it, I haven't got all day."

It was amazing how different the goblins treated them now that they were 'part' of the horde. Even as lowly conscripts, they were given more respect than Harry had ever received as a customer. And after Sirius left him the Black family fortune, he had been a _very_ wealthy client. He would have laughed at the absurdity of it, except that the situation wasn't all that funny. He would not be expected to fight in battle, thank goodness, but he _was_ expected to obey the Warchief. And he had been given a mission: to carry a message back with him into the past, and to deliver that message to Ragnarök.

He didn't know what the message was. It was some kind of verbal cypher, and it was spoken in goblin. He couldn't even pronounce some of the words three hours ago. He had offered to give Ragnarök the memory when and if he managed to reach the past, but apparently goblins couldn't use a pensive. Their minds didn't work like wizards and couldn't share or absorb memories. So they had been forced to sit in the meeting room, long after Ragnarök had left, listening as the Warchief's aide repeated the message again and again, while Harry practiced tearing his larynx out through abusive overuse. Even when he could reproduce the message, it took over two hours and at least a thousand repetitions before the aide allowed them to leave, confident that the 'stupid wizard' wouldn't forget the message he was to deliver.

"That's the Black vault." Harry mentioned as they reached the end of the hall. They left the goblin with the cart and walked through a massive circular room that branched into smaller corridors. The paths led to some of the oldest vaults in Gringotts. There had once been a pair of dragons in the circular room, but they weren't there currently. Probably taken up to join the army. Harry shuddered at the thought of a few dozen dragons loosed on Diagon Alley. "And here's the Potter vault." He said. The Black and Potter family vaults were opposite to each other at the end of the corridor.

"So how should I do this?" Harry asked Ansgar. "I can ask my magic if it can convince the protections to let me through. Or we can use the Magicka Ocularis to see how they're put together and pull them apart."

Ansgar shook his head. "We've wasted enough time here. Just bleed on it and focus on destroying the magic defending the door. Your blood venom should do the rest."

Harry nodded and once again pulled out Dumbledore's old wand, stabbing his hand and stepping forward to smear the blood on the door. The magic protecting the vault immediately flared to life, working to combat the magic-devouring venom. A barrier of seemingly solid light kept the blood from touching the stone door, as the magic fought and boiled away the blood that splashed against the shield. Then the venom adapted. The barrier was gone in an instant, and the door started _melting_ as if it was metal being dissolved by acid. It smoked and fumed and a hole bored through the stone. Harry attacked the wound on his hand again, forcing more blood out. Using his fingers to spread it he drew an arch. When his blood had eaten through enough to weaken the stone, he pushed. A slab of stone shattered as it impacted the ground, a hole now large enough for a man to crouch through had been made in the door.

Harry asked his magic to heal his hand, watching as the wound seemed to seal itself and the blood vanished from his skin. "Thanks." He said aloud. It hummed in pleasure. "Shall we?" He asked his companions.

* * *

"He did say to help myself to anything in my family vaults." Harry defended as they left the bank. His mokeskin pouch now contained nearly the entire wealth of the Potter and Black families, as well as all of the books and artifacts that had been stored in their vaults by both houses. It was not a library equal to even that of Grimmauld Place, but it did contain some rare and exclusive tomes, and scrolls of spells long forgotten. Many of the scrolls looked to be thousands of years old, and interestingly enough the Potter vault had copies of scrolls in the Black vault, and vice-versa. The families had clearly shared knowledge with one another at some point in the past. It meant that any tomes or scrolls that were damaged might be recovered through their copies. The mokeskin pouch had protested the sheer volume of matter being forced into it. Thankfully Snape had his own and shared the burden.

"I somehow doubt he would have interpreted his order that way." Snape replied. "It was awfully Slytherin of you."

"I've never seen so much gold in my life." Ansgar said, still shocked. "Why do wizards use gold? Why not issue a paper currency?"

"Any wizard of passable learning could conjure paper money." Snape said. "And it would likely go unnoticed until the conjuration expired. Gold is a magical capacitor, and so is silver to some extent, but it is an even better conductor. Bronze is a magical insulator. None of them can be conjured fake. Leprechaun gold being an exception, but it is more illusion than conjuration. We use them for currency because they actually hold value. Gold and silver can hold _magic_. Enchantments on gold and silver last nearly forever. Bronze can resist magic, even better than cold iron. Goblin steel uses a mixture of silver and bronze, despite the conflicting properties. Their steel resists magic even as it powers enchantments."

"But what about the Philosopher's Stone?" Harry asked, wondering himself. "That could make gold."

"It could _transmute_ other matter into gold. It used alchemy." Snape corrected. "Alchemy is different from conjuration. As Flamel said, alchemy demands equivalent exchange. Any alchemist can transmute gold, but they would have to offer something of equal value to do it. A wizard could do the same with a true conjuration. True conjuration is a form of equivalent exchange, the only alchemy that can be done with a wand."

"What?" Ansgar demanded. "You just said it couldn't be conjured!"

"I said it couldn't be conjured fake. But it _can_ be conjured true." Snape replied. "If I had the fullness of my magic I could conjure gold. It would be taxing, and my magic would be drained for a day or two to produce only a pittance of gold -perhaps a few grams- but I could do it. If force your magic to take a physical form, the material it becomes is gold. Gold is like… solid magic. It retains all the magic you poured into making it. And if you wanted you could reclaim it in a ritual, literally spending gold to cast magic. Gold is used all the time in rituals to pay the cost of the magic, which would otherwise be beyond any single wizard. I thought that was why we were taking it all!? It's the only reason I helped!"

Harry looked away. "I just figured: why let it sit there? I didn't know it would be useful."

Snape stared at him with a look that once promised detentions and point loss, before he sighed and muttered something unmentionable about his sanity. "Flaunting the goblin's trust in their domain!" He snarled. "At least if there was a justification for it you could argue that you were taking a calculated risk. But without any reason at all? You gamble with your life and my own! You _must_ learn caution. Elsewise we'll succeed in sending you back only to have you die before you do anything useful!"

"So wizards can transmute their magic into gold." Ansgar mused. "That must be bloody useful. Even if it's only a few grams at a time; no wizard would ever be poor. And I guess that's why the exchange rate for mundane currency into wizarding coinage is so unbalanced compared to the value of gold in the nonmagical world. It just isn't that valuable."

"No, that's wrong." Snape said. "Despite the readily available means of producing gold, it is consumed in far too many ways. Rituals, alchemy, potions, and even fertilizer for magical plants use gold. Permanent transfiguration almost always uses gold as a base; transfiguring gold into an object consumes the gold and makes the object permanent by default. It is a lot less taxing on a wizard's magic than just pouring magic into the transfiguration until it becomes real. Despite all of that, you are partly correct. More gold is made by wizards than we consume, not even counting magical creatures that produce gold. But that just creates another problem: inflation. The cost of everything in the magical world is quite high, even with the value of gold, because inflation has devalued the currency within our economy. If there was significantly more crossover with the muggle world, it would never have gotten so bad. But our economies basically don't interact." Snape finished with a sigh.

"Then why is the exchange rate so skewed?" Ansgar asked.

"Subsidies." Snape replied. "The ministry subsidizes the exchange of up to five-hundred galleons per year to muggleborn students. It's another reason the purebloods hate muggleborns. Their taxes pay for the muggleborns to enter our world. That doesn't really consider the cost of education, but it's something that was argued about _every_ _year_ without fail in the Wizengamot. Dumbledore's faction was the only reason the subsidies weren't abolished decades ago. And if they were, no muggleborn could afford to enter our world unless they had extremely wealthy parents."

It made a lot of sense to Harry. Hermione had complained once or twice about the cost of things like books. Harry hadn't really noticed, but a book costing thirty or forty galleons would be the equivalent of spending about two-hundred pounds. That was _with_ the subsidies. Without them, it would cost roughly _five-thousand_ _pounds_ for a single book. Magical knowledge was very valuable, and jealously guarded. Although the magical world had printing presses, the mass produced books published for common use rarely held all of the critical information. The better books were still handwritten, and protected from being copied without actually writing it down.

The Hogwarts library had been a bastion of knowledge available to all students. And the breadth of knowledge contained in those books was the true measure of the school. It really was the finest school of magic in the world, even if Harry still thought poorly of his education there. As Snape explained a few weeks ago, the curriculum had been drastically changed over the last two centuries, to the detriment of the students. It wasn't really an amazing school anymore; it was just better than the other choices. But if the student really put the effort in, they could still learn more there than anywhere else in the world.

Their hoods were back up and Snape was once again keeping close to avoid being spotted. The three of them made their way down the street, avoiding the few others that were moving about. A sudden screech drew their attention.

"Dementor!" A woman not twenty feet ahead of them screamed. She turned and ran at them, head turned behind her. Harry drew Dumbledore's wand and looked wildly around, trying to spot the threat. Ansgar pulled him aside to avoid the woman running into him even as Snape cursed.

The street was immediately filled with panic, and Harry felt the icy cold seep into the air as the shadowy wraith slid over a rooftop and flittered over to a chimney. Skeletal fingers of blackened bone scraped against the mortar as the monster seemed to crawl through the air towards the alley. A man was pounding on a nearby door, begging the occupant to let him in, while others had fled into whatever store was nearby and the shopkeepers sealed their entrances.

"I don't have enough magic left to cast a patronus." Snape warned. "I hope your magic still adores you." He told Harry.

Harry nodded and focused, trying to reach out to his magic. It surrounded him with warmth that pushed away the chill of the dementor. 'Help me!' He thought. 'Drive it away!'

A gust of wind swirled around them as the dementor hovered just above the street. The hooded cowl swiveled this way and that, paying attention to the man sobbing and begging as he pounded against the door that refused him entry. He seemed to notice it was watching him, and turned and ran towards Harry's group.

"I don't want to die." He said. Then he recognized Harry. "You're Harry Potter!" He dropped to his knees and tried to wrap his arms around Harry's legs. "You've got to save me!"

Snape sneered and kicked the man away. "Don't break his concentration or you'll kill us all."

"Snape!" The man exclaimed, recognizing him from his potion classes many years ago. "You're that Death Eater that got away!" He turned back to Harry. "Give him to the dementor. It only takes one person when it comes to feed."

"You mean this isn't the first time?" Snape demanded, enraged at the man's gall, to suggest offering him up as a sacrifice.

The man shivered, whether from the effects of the dementor or from Snape's gaze, nobody could have been certain. "They come about once per week. If we don't give them someone they'll take a whole family."

"You disgusting, murdering bastards!" Snape exclaimed. "So you've been _feeding_ them your own neighbors? You deserve to be kissed!"

"What were we to do? We don't have enough magic left to drive them off!"

Harry did his best to ignore the rambling man, concentrating on his connection with his magic. The wind that surrounded them had strengthened to such a degree that it was a visible rippling in the air, a maelstrom of magic and wind. The dementor shrieked an inhuman wail and came forward, gliding low to the ground. The fringes of its shadowy cloak brushed the stone of the street and its arms outstretched towards Harry as if to strangle him. It remembered him. Twice he had driven it away, and twice it had come back. This time it would have its prey!

The wall of wind disagreed. Violently.

A sudden surge of power redoubled the force of the wind, buffeting those inside its protection even as it battered against the dementor like hammers striking metal at a forge. It cried out again, and _fought_ against the wind, clawing its way forward. The magic filled the air so densely that everyone sensitive to it felt a great pressure crushing against them. Lightning flashed and sparked within the whirlwind, and a bolt of the purest white lightning shot out at the dementor with a thunder-crack that shattered every window in the alley.

The dementor was thrown back again, but again arose to fly forward. Frost covered every surface of the alley outside of the circle of wind, and even inside the circle the air felt chilled. The dementor cried out in hatred, a shriek that could be heard over the roar of the wind. That was when Harry felt it. The seeping terror that spread across his mind. Snape collapsed next to him, screaming incoherently. The stranger and Ansgar followed.

_**Flash**__. Neville smiled grimly as he volunteered for the rearguard. He promised that none of the Death Eaters would get past him. He never left the tunnel. Harry never told him how brave he really was, how grateful Harry was to have him as a friend._

The dementor pierced the wind shield, and Harry fell to his knees.

_**Flash**__. The Burrow was a smoldering ruin. Ron and Ginny were dead. Their mother was dead. Because they were his friends; because he cared about them and Voldemort knew their deaths would hurt him. They never should have split up. He should have insisted that they stuck together after fleeing Hogwarts. It was the wrong decision and it cost the lives of his friends._

The dementor had him by his shoulders, and its black bones were ice cold as they gripped him viciously. He jerked away, falling backwards. But it held on and rushed forward, the overhang of its cowl nearly covering his face.

_**Flash**_. _The bomb went off. Susan and Luna died and Hermione was thrown away. Hermione. His truest friend. The person who never once betrayed him. The person he __**loved**__. Impaled against a tree, dead in just a few moments. Before he even had a chance to say goodbye. Before he had a chance to say he loved her._

Harry knew he was in dire straits. He asked -begged- his magic to bring forth a patronus to drive off the dementor. It wanted to. It wanted to protect him. But a patronus was magic that involved a sacrifice. The caster sacrificed their happiness to power the charm. Happiness was an emotion. It was free, because it cost nothing to feel something. But his magic was not mortal, and though it might feel joy or anger, it was not the human form of those emotions. It didn't have the happiness to sacrifice for the charm. It threw itself at the dementor, trying to drive it away from Harry, trying to protect the person it loved. But the dementor overcame it, and pressed forward to kiss Harry.

Harry, in his last moments of clarity, stabbed Dumbledore's wand clean through his hand and up into the blackened heart of ice within the dementor's chest. The monster screamed even as Harry's soul was ripped from his body.

For a moment, he lost all sensation. Then he felt the cold. The deep, endless dread that promised never to let him go as it drew him ever deeper into the black emptiness. Then he felt a twinge. And he was drawn to it. Again the wrenching pain came, and he followed. Anything was better than the emptiness. Again and again the pang flowed over him, until it became a dull ache. He arrived where it originated from, and almost stopped in shock.

The blackness was on _fire._ And it burned with a fury that raged and bode. A promise of retribution; to destroy the black forever: to kill the unkillable and leave _nothing_ behind.

Harry threw himself into the fire, and it surrounded him and welcomed him and pulled him back into itself, a comforting embrace. He flowed back down through the tear the fire had rent in the blackness and found himself once again in his body. His hands deep in the chest of the dementor that_ just devoured his soul_! He had come back into himself by following his blood into his body. He stared into the darkness of the cowl, and _wanted_ it to die. The venom in his blood responded, and the monster shrieked in agony and writhed upon the wand that staked through its heart. Its boney fingers scratched and tore at him, and he threw it off him and onto the street. It shriveled up, convulsing.

Then it died, and the shadowy cloak evaporated. There was no flesh beneath it, only bones. They were vaguely human. The arms and torso and head were the same, but the lower body was cut off, with the spine extending some distance further than it should as if it were a tail. And on its back were two additional appendages. The boney stumps of what were once wings, and even on the skeleton Harry could see that they had been _cut off_ at some point. The dementor was like some kind of fallen angel, turned undying wraith. He idly wondered if the Department of Mysteries would be interested in the body. Wizards didn't really know much about dementors, and as far as Harry knew, no one had ever succeeded in killing one before. The only known defense against them was a patronus. Not even the killing curse could slow one down.

Snape was the first to recover, making good use of his occlumency to control himself. "Did you _kill_ the dementor?" He asked.

"I guess so." Harry said, looking at the skeletal corpse. He tried to sit up, but found himself too weak even to do that. The chill of the dementor still lingered over him, and even though his magic surrounded him soothingly, its warmth couldn't seem to penetrate the surface of his skin. He shivered, losing focus for a moment as dread filled him. "I'm not about to poke it to make sure though. I'll leave that to someone who didn't just have their soul ripped out." He told Snape.

"Point." Snape said, not willing to risk it himself. Then he did a double take. "Did you just say it took your soul!?" He demanded.

"I…" Harry trailed off he was overcome with the bitter cold that gnawed at his insides. "Yea, it did." He finally said.

"It could only happen to you, Potter." Snape muttered.

Ansgar recovered next. "What happened?" He asked. He had been crying, watching his daughter tortured and his wife raped over and over again. His tears had frozen against his face when the dementor neared, and he scratched at them.

Harry knew he was in a bad way. He fought the shivering for long enough to say so. "I can't s-seem to keep w-warm." He stuttered. "I'm s-so c-c-c-cold!" He clutched his chest, ignoring the wand still stabbed through his hand as Snape and Ansgar looked at him with concern.

The stranger woke up and seemed to realize that he was still alive. Then he saw the skeleton of the dementor and after a few moments of stunned disbelief he realized what happened. He started shouting at the top of his lungs, drawing the attention of those barricaded behind their doors and spreading the word that they were fine. The Boy-Who-Lived had saved them and killed a dementor!

Snape would have cursed him if it wouldn't have wasted so much of what precious magic remained to him. "We have to get Harry out of here." He said to Ansgar.

Ansgar nodded. He was _big_, standing almost six feet and five inches. And he was built to his size. The scientist picked Harry up between his arms and looked to Snape for where to go.

"We can't go through the Leaky Cauldron. Too many people and it's too far away. Back to Gringotts." He decided. "We'll take our chances with the goblins." Snape, thinking quickly, pulled out his apothecary bag and a pair of gloves and gathered the remains of the dementor. Hopefully the goblins would take it in exchange for their safety and some first aid. He rushed to catch up with Ansgar, who hadn't bothered to wait for him. The alley was already crawling with spectators, and more than a few were pointing at Snape and giving him angry looks. 'Damn it all.' He thought. It would be just the sort of tragedy that followed Potter for him to have saved everyone in the alley from the dementor only to have the mob kill his friend and ally to show their appreciation. He could seldom believe how stupid the average person was. And he realized that if _that_ was average, than half of the population was even stupider than that! It was a wonder they could wipe their own rear after using the lavatory.

Thankfully they got back to Gringotts before the mob could get riled.

* * *

The next several days passed in a blur for Harry. He was in and out of consciousness too often to remain coherent, and rarely felt well enough to eat. He was constantly surrounded by his magic, pressing its warmth against him and trying to ease his suffering. The cold ate away at him, the dread and misery filled his feverish dreams as his body fought against the chill that infected him. His hand had been tended to, quite carefully when the goblin healer had been warned of the dangers of his blood. But that was the only physical wound. The goblins had no idea how to deal with the fact that his soul had been consumed by a dementor. Its brief absence from his body may have damaged it, or it was the dementor that caused the harm. They didn't know. They had never heard of anyone surviving such a thing, let alone killing a dementor.

Ragnarök had come to see them again, and Snape had dealt with the Warchief. The goblin was not glad to see them returned, but was appeased by their story. He was _ecstatic_ with the gift of the dementor's blackened heart and skeleton. He promoted both Snape and Ansgar to recruits and Harry to battle-captain, with both of them under Harry's 'command' within the goblin army. Snape had no idea what that would entail for them. Goblins weren't quite sane, in his opinion.

Snape wondered how long the good will of their hosts would last. If Harry didn't improve soon, they would likely cut their losses and kill them all.

Just then Ansgar came running into the antechamber. "It spoke to me!" He exclaimed.

"What?" Snape wondered what new madness had possessed the man now. First goblins and now this; he was fed up with it all.

"Harry's magic." Ansgar explained. "I was asking what we could do to help him. And it _answered_ me!"

'He's lost his mind.' Snape realized. Slowly, and with great caution in case the imposing man turned violent, Snape asked him to clarify. "And what did it tell you we needed to do?"

"We need to get him to a veela!" Ansgar replied.

Snape stared at him without blinking, utterly and completely speechless. It took almost a minute for his brain to work out what Ansgar had said, and by then the scientist was going on and on about how Harry's magic was going to take them to France. "Wait." Snape said. "Just _wait_ one bloody moment!"

Ansgar stopped mid-sentence.

"What the bloody hell does a veela have to do with any of this?" Snape demanded.

"It's the opposite of a dementor." Ansgar explained. "Harry took in the essence of the dementor when his soul passed through the creature, the same way he took in the essence of the basilisk back in his second year at school. Back then, the phoenix passed on its essence to balance against the basilisk. The phoenix stands for life and rebirth, the basilisk stands for death and decay. They cancel each other out. But now there isn't anything to balance the dementor."

"And getting him to absorb veela essence will counterbalance the dementor?" Snape asked. It actually made a strange sort of sense.

"The veela stands for passion and fire: burning elation; the dementor stands for apathy and cold: frozen despair." Ansgar said. "They are perfectly contrasting essences. It will work."

"So how are we supposed to do this?" Snape asked.

"I just told you!" Ansgar moaned. "We take him outside of Gringotts wards and stand close to him, his magic will Disapparate us to France. Then we need to get to the Delacours."

"It told you all that." Snape wondered.

"Yes!" Ansgar snapped. "Now we've got to hurry. Harry doesn't have long, not even a day!"

That decided Snape. He would embrace the insanity and see if the world was any nicer when seen through the lens of madness. "Well what are we waiting for?" He asked, jumping to his feet.

* * *

Harry's magic came through for them. Moments after they stepped outside Gringotts, it tightened around the three of them and Snape was subjected to the worst side-along disapparation he had ever experienced. He promptly bent over and puked his guts dry on a grassy field in France. When he was settled enough to stand straight, he helped Ansgar get to his feet and they steadied Harry between them. Ansgar claimed that this was as far as Harry's magic could take them, both because of the power required to disapparate over such distances and because of the wartime anti-disapparation wards that still covered the area. That it had seemingly taken them through at least the first layer of wards was an impressive feat, as far as Snape was concerned. He couldn't have done that even _with_ all of his magic.

But they still had quite a distance to travel. They moved to the edge of the field they had landed in, finding a road. They followed it south until they found a muggle dwelling. Snape, having been removed from the muggle world for many years, still knew enough to get by, and saw something that could help them sitting in the drive. "Do you know how to use one of those?" He asked Ansgar, pointing to the automobile. Ansgar nodded, and Snape immediately walked up to the house and knocked on the front door. When the muggle opened it and asked who he was and what he wanted, Snape went straight to the point. "I'll give you fifty galleons for the car." He said. When the man only looked at him in confusion, Snape pulled the mokeskin pouch from around his neck and retrieved a galleon. "This." He said, handing it over.

"Fifty?" The muggle asked, his disbelief evident. "Fifty gold coins!?" Then he looked suspicious. "You didn't rob someone, did you?"

Considering that they had, in a roundabout way, stolen the money from Gringotts, Snape sighed and admitted it. "Yes, we did. Now do we have an accord?" Snape demanded, already eyeing the car in the neighbor's drive with some consideration.

He seemed to mull it over. "Why not! It's the end of the world anyhow." The man said finally, turning into the house to retrieve the keys.

Snape carelessly extracted the coins, probably pulling out more than fifty in his haste.

"I'll claim it was stolen in a week. Should be enough time for you to get another car." The muggle said.

"More than acceptable." Snape replied. He dumped the coins into the stunned muggle's hands and snatched the keys from him, tossing them to Ansgar, who had already loaded Harry into the backseat. They were on the road a few seconds later.

"So why the Delacours?" Snape asked. "Their estate is in southern France, several hours from here. There is a veela colony near the border with Switzerland. They're much closer."

Ansgar shrugged. "His magic insisted that it had to be the little veela, and to find her with the Delacours. Something about a life debt that connected them and would make it possible. I don't think just shoving any veela at him will work."

Snape nodded slowly, remembering the second task of the triwizard tournament, when Harry rescued Fleur Delacour's younger sister. Snape couldn't recall the girl's name. He supposed they would find out soon.

* * *

They avoided the cities and major population centers. The muggles of France were rioting. This meant a further two hours of driving, so they had to stop for petrol, and wasn't _that_ an unpleasant experience. The station they stopped at to refuel refused to sell to them, because the foolish muggle wasn't willing to take real money. They resorted to buying petrol from a farmer. It was lucky that Ansgar spotted the holding tank on the man's property, and luckier still that the man was home. He met them at the door to his house with a long-barreled hunting rifle pointed at them. Neither Snape nor Ansgar spoke French fluently, so they had to resort to Ansgar speaking in German to make their purchase.

The farmer was kind enough, once he figured they weren't looters. His wife even gave them some food, and they managed to get Harry to use the loo while they were there. Ansgar told a simple lie that Harry was suffering from the flu and the couple fell over themselves to help, packing some more food for them to take with them. Harry's magic acted up before they left, and Snape could detect a powerful ward going up around the muggles' house. He wondered what it did, and tried to get a sense of the magic. All he could discover was that it was some form of protection. He supposed that the muggles _were_ helpful, and if Harry's magic wanted to do something nice for them in gratitude, it was free to do so.

They arrived on the outskirts of the Delacour estate in the late afternoon. The property was guarded by muggles, who forced them to stop. None of them spoke English or German, and there was a long and tense moment where Snape thought they would have to fight their way past. He had a few potions left that could serve, if needed. One gave a temporary but brutal increase in the drinker's strength and stamina, while another would disperse in the air and put everyone to sleep. He had already taken the antidote for it and it only required a single drop on the skin to wake someone under its effects, so he was confident he could deal with the muggles if necessary.

Thankfully it was not. A wizard member of the guard staff saw them and approached. He spoke passable English. "What iz zeh meaning of dis?" He demanded.

"We need to see the Delacours. It is a matter of some urgency." Ansgar said.

The man sneered. "Ze Delacours are being in mourning. Zhey are not to be disturbed! Begone from 'ere before I 'ave you jailed!"

Snape decided he had had enough. "It concerns a life debt owed by the Delacours." He said. No wizard would _dare_ refuse their lord the chance to fulfill a life debt. The consequences of ignoring them were now too high for the stupid wizard to follow through with his threats. The man's face turned an interesting shade of purple before the words sank in and he turned pale instead. "You don't look well." Snape commented with some relish. "Why don't you go and see if Lord Delacour will see us."

The French wizard huffed and stalked away, muttering orders to the muggle guards, who relaxed but still kept watch over them. A minute later the wizard returned. "Lord Jean-Baptiste Delacour will see you. Follow zeh drive to zee 'ouse and enter z'ough zeh front door."

"That could have gone better." Ansgar commented with a soft chuckle as they drove onto the estate. "He looked ready to faint when you mentioned the life debt."

"Be silent." Snape muttered, rubbing his temples. "I have a headache coming on."

* * *

Lady Appolline Delacour met them at the door. They were supporting Harry between them and helping him up the steps into the manor. "I knew it would be 'arry." She said sadly, stepping forward to assist. "Because 'e is dee only one to 'oom we owe a debt." She led them down a hall and into a sitting room with a long couch. "Set 'im zere." She pointed. "Wote is dee matter?" She asked just as her husband entered the room.

"His soul was torn out by a dementor." Snape said, helping him lay down. "The dementor found him to be indigestible and died violently from the effort. Harry's soul found its way back into his body, but his soul was damaged from the battle." He summarized as quickly as he could.

"Surely you jest!" Jean-Baptiste exclaimed, looking over the back of the couch to examine Harry for himself. His English was much better than his wife's.

Ansgar shook his head. "Sadly that's about what happened. Harry's magic has had a mind of its own since the last battle with Voldemort. It told us to bring him here. I didn't know what else to do, and we were pretty desperate, so we came." He looked at Jean-Baptiste, unsure if he should say precisely what he believed was needed.

It turned out he didn't need to. "_Mercy! Miséricorde!_" Appolline cried. "_Non mon petit!_"

Jean-Baptiste immediately went to his wife, trying to make sense of her hysterics. "_Ce qui est faux!?_" He asked. When he could not get a coherent answer from her he turned to Ansgar with angry eyes. "What is the meaning of this?"

"The dementor left a bit of itself in Harry. It is a part of him now, and can't be removed. It is the cause of the affliction that is killing him. He needs something to counterbalance it. A veela bond might be strong enough." He looked at Appolline. "I do not believe it will kill her."

Jean-Baptiste held his wife close in a firm hug. "It would not have to. The veela are all dying. A world without the possibility of children is anathema to them. They are all born of the purest love, and have the greatest of desires to be mothers. There are very few veela left now, most of them have self-immolated; their passionfyre consuming them in their grief. Only those who have forged bonds of truest love with their mates have been able to hold on." He shed his own tears now. "Fleur has already left us. And in truth I think the only thing that kept _mon Appolline_ here is our daughter, Gabrielle. I love her, yes, and she loves me. But I do not think our bond is strong enough to survive the passing of our children. And Gabrielle has not followed her sister because of the unfulfilled debt that holds her. She will not remain once it is gone. We can help you, but it will cost me my last daughter and likely my wife as well."

"But I thought Fleur was engaged to William Weasley?" Ansgar asked. "Did they not have a bond?"

Jean-Baptiste nodded sadly. "She was, yes, but there had not been enough time for a bond to form between them." He looked at Harry. "If it ever would. Merely loving one another is not enough; both must be willing to sacrifice of themselves for the other, to hold nothing between them." He stated. "A bond takes years to form, even if all conditions are perfect. I do not think he has that long."

Ansgar shook his head. "He has less than a day, at best estimate."

"Then what you ask might not be possible. A bond takes time and sacrifice! And I do not mean a petty sacrifice, like taking time out of their day to help the other or even being willing to die for the other. Such things are quite common. They must both be willing to sacrifice of their heart, to give a piece of themselves to the other and take a piece of the other into themselves. You call it a soul bond, but it is the heart and not the soul, which matters. I have given of myself to Appolline, and taken of her into myself, but she is incapable of taking me into her heart, so our bond is only in part, and will never be complete. This is why I fear for her, if she loses our Gabrielle."

"Then we have more trouble than that." Snape said, quietly swearing under his breath. "Harry did not have a pleasant childhood. He is incapable of trusting another, at least to the extent you suggest is required."

Appolline wiped her tears and looked down at Harry with sadness. "Yet 'is magic called 'im 'ere." She said with trembling lips. "So dere is 'ope for 'im." She held her husband's hand firmly. "You will see 'im to dee guest room, and we will bring Gabrielle. We must allow dem both to find dere own way. If it is to be, den it will be." She sobbed again.

Jean-Baptiste nodded. "There is a room with a bed at the end of the hall, on the right. We will go and see to our daughter, and say our goodbyes in case of the worst."

* * *

Harry was lost in fever induced delirium. His body and his magic were fighting against the ice cold darkness that writhed within him, trying to keep it from freezing his blood. But it was not the cold that was winning. The ice was locked in a stalemate with his magic, neither coming out ahead. Instead it was the apathy that had taken root within him, which was the cause of his deterioration. His body was just giving up, no longer trying to live. He fought for each breath, fearing it would be his last. The period between his exhales and inhales had become longer over time. It was now marked by several heartbeats. Heartbeats which, themselves, had become so very slow. It was simply too much effort. He closed his eyes, intending to blink, but he couldn't find the motivation to open them.

Five heartbeats later he was jolted by his magic into opening his eyes, and he took another labored breath. Why wouldn't it leave him? Why wouldn't it let him die? He had nothing left. All his friends were gone. _Not alone!_ It wailed at him. _Never alone again. Fight. Live._

But he had nothing left to live for. And it took a dementor forcing his darkest memories for him to realize something that should have been obvious since his first year. He loved Hermione Granger. He would never have come between her and Ron, if she decided to be with Ron instead of him. Ron had been a good friend to him for many years, and despite his petty jealousy and frequent betrayals, Ron had risked his life beside him many times. But he loved her, nonetheless, and not for the first time envied his red haired friend. Perhaps if he had not been naive about his feelings, he could have asked her out himself. It didn't matter now. They were both gone.

He closed his eyes again, unaware of the conversation happening around him. He opened them with a start as his magic woke him again. He was on a bed, and a silvery blond girl was sitting on him. Her knees were on the bed, and she held herself so that she wasn't pressing heavily against him, but nevertheless he _felt_ her body against his own.

She was warm.

It was odd that he realized that, more than anything else about her. Her warmth was a soothing balm against the chill inside him. She brought her hands down upon his chest as she leaned forward to look into his eyes. Her bright blue eyes shone with sadness and… something else. Something he hadn't seen in such a long time that he couldn't remember what it was.

"_Mon 'arry._" She whispered. "_Oui. Je te aime._ I am 'ere for you, 'arry." She smiled, and it was like a dazzling light that shined down upon him. He stared into her eyes, captivated by her beauty. "_Vous êtes vide._ Let me inside. Let my love fill you." She drew her face down to his and pressed her warm lips against his mouth. A sweet fire burned away the cold as he kissed her. Pulling away she murmured. "I 'ave dreamed of zis. _Depuis que je__étais petit, mon 'arry._"

He felt her tears against his check, and was stuck with curiosity for the first time in days. Why was she crying?

She took a shuddering breath. "I give you everyzing. All I am. Do not reject _moi. Me prendre à l'intérieur. _Take me inside. _Accepte__ce que je offre._ Accept wote I offer. _Plaire._ Please."

She was crying for him?

She leaned forward again, kissing him once more. The sweet fire erupted all around him. He felt engulfed in the flames. He blinked, seeing the fire roaring like a halo around her head, whipping her hair around. She had wings made of fire. She wrapped her arms around him and her wings beat once, then twice, lifting them off the bed. Then her wings folded and surrounded them both in fire. It burned away the cold and the darkness. And he _felt_ her love for him: her total, utterly devoted and completely unconditional love. She _loved_ him and he _knew_ it without any doubt or hesitation. He, who had always longed for this more than anything, could not reject it and could not refuse it when it was so freely offered. It had been his fondest, most desperate desire for as long as he had lived. And she gave it to him freely, without regret.

That was what seemed familiar in her eyes. Something no one else had given him since his mother looked at him as a baby. Absolute love and acceptance. And he _knew_ her. He could remember her at last.

"Gabrielle." His voice was a hoarse whisper. She cried openly, hugging herself to him and burying her face in his chest even as her fire raged around them. "Gabrielle, what's wrong?"

"I 'ave wanted zis forever. But we only 'ave tonight." She looked up and kissed him again. "Do not worry, _mon 'arry_." Her fire settled down and they fell naked to the bed, their clothes burned away. "Tonight is _la nôtre_. Ours."

* * *

**_Author's Note: I apologize for the terrible French. I used google translate for the relevant dialogue. Forgive me for destroying the language._**


	5. Chapter 5

**_Author's Note: It should be obvious, but I must declare that I own no rights to the Harry Potter story or any of its characters. All such ownership belongs to J. K. Rowling. Only characters of my own creation are not hers, and I reserve no rights upon them, so if they catch your fancy feel free to use them._**

Chapter Five:

The light from the window was gradually becoming brighter, hinting at the coming of dawn. Harry lay awake in a bed, half covered by a blanket, watching the person sleeping next to him. Her breathing was quiet and she had one arm draped over him and the other under her pillow, mashing it against her head. He sighed, a mixture of apprehension and contentment, as he thought again about last night. He was torn, between how much he genuinely cared about Gabrielle and how much he knew he loved Hermione. If there was one good thing that had come of the dementor, it was the realization he came to as he relived his darkest memories again and again. He _loved_ Hermione.

But he didn't know what to do about it.

Even if he succeeded in going back in time, even if he could defeat Voldemort and saved everyone that the Death Eaters murdered, the Hermione there wouldn't be _his_ Hermione. A person's memories make them who they are. If history changed, she wouldn't have the same experiences, and wouldn't become the same person. She would be a Hermione that looked the same and maybe even acted the same, but _wasn't_ the same. She would be a _different_ Hermione. His Hermione was gone forever. A part of him wanted to weep for the loss of the woman he loved while another part wanted to seize the second chance he would have to be with some version of her. It made him terribly confused.

And then there was Gabrielle.

He didn't know what he thought of the youngest Delacour. She was a kind young woman who had been infatuated with him as badly as Ginny ever was. She had gotten over that phase quickly, when she learned that there was a difference between Harry and the Boy-Who-Lived. Her crush shifted immediately over to Harry, who she claimed was a _real_ hero, and not a fake character from a silly book. Harry wasn't exactly happy with the hero worship, but at least Gabrielle could see the difference between what was fantasy and reality. Unlike most people, who never bothered to see him for who he was.

Gabrielle was the sister of Fleur Delacour, who had been his fellow competitor in the Triwizard Tournament, and that relation also meant that her grandmother was a veela. It was certainly apparent during their lovemaking: the affectionate fire and tender warmth that radiated from her burning wings as they were both embraced by her passionfyre had definitely not been his magic. She had been held as Fleur's hostage at the bottom of the Black Lake during the second task. He rescued her and Ron, who had been his own hostage, when it became apparent that Fleur had been waylaid and was unable to finish. It had been utterly mortifying for the poor girl, to be rescued by her biggest hero. She, like Ginny and so many others, had been enamored with the Boy-Who-Lived. He hadn't seen much of her after that. She had approached him, alongside her sister, to thank him shortly after she recovered, and he had met her briefly on two occasions during the school year. She had also been present for the third task, to watch her sister compete.

That was almost all he knew of her.

Gabrielle, like her sister, was at least part veela. Fleur had revealed her veela heritage at the wand-weighing ceremony when she acknowledged that her wand core was a veela hair, and had been donated by her grandmother. Harry wasn't sure how that all worked out, but Fleur and Gabrielle were at least one-fourth veela. And it showed in more than just her fire. She was sensual and vivacious in her lovemaking. He had never felt so loved or cherished. She had made him feel alive again, after a week of endless nightmares that drowned him in loneliness and sorrow. He would have given up and died days ago if not for his magic forcing him to go on.

He mentally called out his thanks. He had been ungrateful and even angry that his magic hadn't left him alone, but in truth it had saved his life. It had constantly encouraged him to fight against the apathy that afflicted him. And he was grateful, and very sorry that he had been irate with it when it had only been looking out for him.

_Never alone. Always loved._ It told him. _No sadness. All is forgiven._

So it accepted his apologies. That was a relief. He hadn't been in his right mind when he had cursed at his magic for keeping him from death. It would have been awkward if that had been hanging between them. He didn't really feel that he deserved anyone's forgiveness. He had failed everyone that mattered to him. The dementor had shown him that much. He laughed silently at himself for being such a fool, for thinking things would ever be made right.

_Stop despairing. Follow chosen path. Will not fail. Will help succeed._ His magic said. Again it encouraged him to continue. He shivered at the conviction it voiced. It would not fail him.

His movement must have touched Gabrielle, because she squirmed in her slumber. "Good morning Gabrielle." Harry whispered, staring at her sleeping face. The corners of her lips twitched in a half-smile and she snuggled closer, murmuring contentment at his voice. He leaned forward and gently kissed her forehead.

Burying her face in his chest, she made sounds that could have been words to her still-dreaming mind. "_Mon 'arry_." She purred, opening her eyes to see if she was imagining things.

Harry looked down at her as she looked up at him. She grinned, pushing herself up and rolling them both over so that she was on top of him. Then she quickly leaned in and stole a kiss before giggling and jumping off the bed. A single blazing feather, with bright red flames, was dislodged from the blankets and drifted to the floor. "Gabrielle." Harry called after her, sitting up and watching her run to the lavatory. He leaned over and picked the feather up by the quill, marveling that the flame didn't spread or burn yet still gave off noticeable heat.

"Yes, _mon 'arry_?" She asked sweetly.

"Did last night really happen?" He asked, bemused by her antics. He pinched the feather lightly between his fingers and brushed the flame across his nose. It flickered against his skin and smelled strongly of her: a hint of cinnamon and -oddly enough for a being associated so strongly with fire- ocean spray.

"_Oui_, of course. Was zere any doubt?" She replied.

"Only that I was dreaming it all." He swung his feet off the bed and stretched as she stepped back into the room and sauntered over to him, her hips swaying in a way that drew his eyes. She grinned at him and he smiled back at her, standing up to embrace her. She pressed herself against him and he found his lips on hers again.

"Do 'ou still 'ave doubts?" She asked.

Harry blushed fiercely, but gathered himself to reply. "Oh yes, many doubts." He flirted. "I think I need lots more convincing before I believe it really happened." He leaned forward to kiss her again, enjoying the taste of her lips and tongue.

"_Oui_, _mon 'arry_." Gabrielle sighed, breaking the kiss. "I will give you lots of reassurances. But we cannot tarry too long."

"Look what I found." Harry said, holding up the feather.

Gabrielle's eyes focused intently upon the blazing feather and a mischievous smile lit up her face. "Keep it." She suggested. "As a memento of our love, and proof that I have wings!" She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him deeply.

"Thank you." Harry mumbled into her mouth. He broke the kiss with a sigh, becoming serious. "Gabrielle. We need to talk." He said.

"About 'er?" She asked. "Zee ozzer girl you love?"

"How did you…?" Harry wondered, shaking his head. "Yes. About her."

Gabrielle pouted, but allowed herself to be pulled into his lap as he sat down on the bed once more. "A veela always knows 'er own heart." She said with a touch of sadness.

"It wouldn't be fair for me to keep it from you. Not after what you did for me." Harry said. "I didn't even know how much I really loved her until the dementor tortured me over and over again with the memory of losing her."

A few tears slid down Gabrielle's cheeks. "I knew as soon as you let me into your 'eart." She said softly. "I felt 'er zere in you."

Harry didn't know what to say, so he held her tightly and kissed away her tears.

She sniffed once and relaxed in his arms. "I will not stand between you, 'arry." She said. "But I must ask, 'ou is she?"

"Hermione." Harry whispered.

"Your friend from school?" Gabrielle asked tenderly, remembering the girl who had stood beside him throughout the tournament. "I never zhought she… I am sorry, I knew zhat she 'ad died, and zat 'ou were close. And 'ou didn't tell 'er? About 'ow 'ou felt?"

Harry shook his head sadly. "I never told her because… I didn't even know myself. And now it's much too late and I'll never know if she felt the same for me."

"She was already in your 'eart, 'arry." Gabrielle said. "She could not be zere if she did not already give 'er 'eart to you. Trust zhat she loved you, 'arry." She felt a terrible sadness for him, to have finally found true love, but too late to share it with the person he had taken into his heart. She wondered if Hermione would have taken him into her heart if she was still alive. His love for her would be forever unfulfilled. His pained eyes told her everything, and she didn't know how he could stand it. It would have driven a veela to madness or self-immolation. She offered what comfort she could with her closeness, nuzzling against his neck. Truly, she was amazed that he had room in his heart for her as well. She was grateful for that. It was like an anchor to her, keeping her from drifting too far into the dispassionate melancholy that had already taken so many veela. She would have likely followed after Fleur in another week otherwise.

It had been her debt to Harry that held her back. Now that it was repaid, she had expected to be drawn into despair and succumb to her own passionfyre. But that wasn't happening. Harry hadn't offered his heart to her as she had to him. She had felt enough of his heart to know that he probably _couldn't_ sacrifice a part of himself so easily. He had suffered too much hardship to open himself up to that kind of hurt. He barely knew what love was. He had no trouble accepting the love others offered him, but he couldn't truly love them in return. He always held himself back. But then with the dementor things had changed. He finally recognized his feelings for Hermione and his heart was held out to her, but she was dead and would never be able to accept what he offered. And that had hurt him as badly as if she had rejected him outright.

Gabrielle closed her eyes, wishing he could offer his heart to her. She wouldn't hesitate to take him into hers. Despite the incompleteness of their bond, she was not being driven to self-immolate. Feeling for the piece of her heart inside Harry, she could see why. He held her like nothing else mattered in the world. She was held so tightly inside his heart that she _felt_ the crushing weight of his need for her. He was desperately clinging to the piece of her heart like a needful child starved of all affection. And she realized that he _had been_ such a child. He _cherished_ the love she gave to him, as if it was the most precious thing he ever received. And that need for her held her back from falling into the melancholy.

She smiled up at him. "I will be zere for you." She vowed. "For as long as you need me."

XXXXXXXXXX

"Mon père!" Gabrielle said, rushing forward and embracing her father with a hug that nearly knocked him from his chair. Harry followed her into the dining room, where Ansgar and Snape were already eating breakfast with Gabrielle's father. Gabrielle began a rapid conversation in French with her father, who glanced meaningfully at Harry during their exchange. Harry could guess at what they were discussing and blushed under his scrutiny. He had gleamed only a little from Gabrielle before they left the suite. He had been brought in yesterday, late in the afternoon. He had been very sick because of the dementor, and not expected to survive the night. The seemingly insane plan to bring him here had been a conspiracy between Ansgar and his magic, with the intention of having him bond with a veela to drive out the taint from the dementor. He still found it very awkward that Gabrielle's father _knew_ what they had been doing last night.

Harry stammered out an introduction. "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Delacour."

"And you, Harry." Jean-Baptiste replied, breaking free of his daughter and offering his hand. "Please call me Jean."

"Thank you for your hospitality." Harry said, shaking the man's hand. "And for everything your family's done for me. I owe my life to your daughter. I would have succumbed to the dementor's taint if not for Gabrielle. If there is anything your family needs, and it is within my power to grant, you have only to ask it of me and I will do all that I can to repay you." He formerly acknowledged the debt he felt he owed.

"Nonsense." Jean-Baptiste said as diplomatically as possible. He hadn't realized that Harry was ignorant of the life-debt his family owed to the boy for saving Gabrielle, and he didn't want to imply that they had only saved him because of their debt. He would have done all in his power to help Harry even if there had been nothing between them, though he may have been more hesitant to allow his daughter to give herself to him. "It was us who owed you a debt, Harry, for saving my daughter during the second task."

"What?" Harry asked, dumbfounded. "But no one was at risk. Dumbledore insured that the hostages were perfectly safe. All I did was retrieve her from the lake a little sooner than she would have been otherwise."

"_Non_, Harry. She would have died. Magic itself recognizes life-debts between two people, and it cannot be deceived. There _was_ a debt owed -and a full debt at that- therefore we can only conclude that she would have died." Jean-Baptiste was deathly serious, and Harry blinked in surprise.

"How can that be? I thought they were protected!"

Gabrielle, seated at the table sipping orange juice, cocked her head back at Harry. "Veela… we are creatures of fire. Being at zee bottom of an ice cold lake in February was very dangerous. If my magic 'ad reacted to the 'ostile surroundings, zee stasis charm would 'ave broke and I would 'ave drowned. But zere was no way out of zee situation. Zee Goblet of Fire chooses zee 'ostages for each champion. I 'ad no choice but to participate. And 'ostages 'ave died in the past." She explained. "If I 'ad been in zee lake anozzer few minutes… I would not 'ave come out alive. So yes, zere was a debt between us."

Harry came to a horrible realization. "Then all of this was because of the debt? Because you were compelled? I'm sorry Gabrielle. I didn't mean to-"

"_Non 'arry_!" Gabrielle interrupted. She felt him loosening his need for her, trying to set her free from what he believed he forced her into. She all but threw herself from her chair and embraced him.

"-do this to you." Harry finished, staggering as Gabrielle wrapped herself around him.

"Do not let me go! I will die." She begged. Instantly she felt his heart cling possessively to the piece of hers inside him, and he was once again her anchor. She sobbed lightly. "I am sorry, _mon 'arry_. I should 'ave explained." He brought his arms up around her, holding her tightly until she relaxed. "I need you, 'arry. Zee veela are dying. We are leaving zis world. Wizzout children zere is nozzing for us. Our own fire consumes us. You hold me in your 'eart. It keeps me from fading away like _ma sœur_, Fleur. If anyzzing, I _still_ owe you a debt."

Harry shook his head. "I won't accept that." He said to her, and then looked to her father. "I stand by my offer."

Jean-Baptiste nodded in thought. "Then, as repayment, I ask that you forever cherish and love my daughter. Let the bond between you be of the truest love and never go unfulfilled."

"I will." Harry said, leaning down to press his lips against a startled Gabrielle, who melted into the kiss. "Never doubt it for a moment." He said, staring into her eyes. She grinned at him, and his burdens felt lighter in the radiance of her smile.

"_Ma fille précieuse!_" Appolline Delacour entered and rushed to embrace her daughter, stealing Gabrielle away from a pleasantly bemused Harry.

"_Ma mère_." Gabrielle hugged her mother back. "_Mon 'arry_ gave me wings!"

Appolline blinked. "'e didn't!" She exclaimed.

"Show 'er, 'arry." Gabrielle told Harry, who pulled the still brightly blazing feather out. He had no idea what significance it had, but it was apparently quite important. "See?" Gabrielle smirked and turned to Harry. "Zat is zee proof of our love. As long as it burns, our love is true."

Harry suddenly knew just what to say. "Then it will burn forever and ever."

XXXXXXXXXX

They spent a further five days at the Delacour residence, while Harry rested and recovered from his ordeal. Appolline was thrilled that her last daughter had forged a bond strong enough to keep her from fading away. They spent the days in leisure. Harry was dragged by Gabrielle to the paddock to learn to ride a horse. Her own mare was a gentle old girl who absolutely loved oats, which Gabrielle cleverly hid away in Harry's pocket. The horse instantly loved him when he pulled them out. After a few lessons they went for a short ride, with him sitting behind Gabrielle in the saddle. She held the reins, guiding the horse along the path. It was all he could do to stay in the saddle, sitting astride the horse.

Finally it was time to leave. Gabrielle would be coming with them. The Delacours gave heartfelt goodbyes to their daughter, and there were many tears shed. Ansgar had been in contact with his friend and arranged transport back to England. They we met at a small airport about an hour away from the Delacour estate.

Commodore Benson was once again there to personally escort them, this time aboard a military airplane. "I knew something bad happened when you didn't make it back to the helicopter." He told them. The airplane accelerated and Gabrielle shrieked as it took off, gripping Harry's arm tightly. Benson chuckled at her reaction.

"It got very intense for a little bit." Ansgar nodded. "But we made it through in one piece."

"I'm glad you're alright." Benson said. Turning to Gabrielle he asked. "You're Gabrielle?"

She nodded, still clinging to Harry's arm. "_Oui_."

"Don't worry. We're perfectly safe. These airplanes have so many redundancies that failure is almost impossible. And it's a short trip. We'll be down on the ground before you know it."

She nodded at him, thankful for the reassurance.

Benson's phone rang and he glanced at it with a frown. Excusing himself he stepped into the cockpit and took the copilot's seat for some privacy. Since they were flying close enough to Paris to see the city, Harry helped Gabrielle get over her fear by getting her to point out the landmarks. They flew just east of the city, heading north.

"I know that one." Harry said.

"_Oui 'arry_. Everyone knows zee tower." She shifted to sit more in his lap. "Zat is zee _Avenue des_ _Champs_-_Élysées__." Gabrielle said, touching the window and tracing the long road with her finger. "And zat is zee __Arc de Triomphe de l'Étoile_." She pointed.

He glanced at the arc and then at her. "Beautiful." He said, staring into her eyes.

"Zee arc or _moi_?" Gabrielle asked sweetly.

"Both." Harry replied, his gaze never wavering. "But I find you more enchanting." He paused. "And more lovely." She smiled at him. "And more gorgeous." He said with a grin.

She swatted his arm playfully. "_Mon 'arry_. You are a flirt. But you give adorable compliments." He decided that she wouldn't mind and promptly stole another kiss. As with all of his attempts over the past five days, she already knew what he was about and was ready for him. She giggled and kissed him back, and he was immensely pleased with himself for seemingly no reason other than that he was kissing a girl that he loved as much as he dared. They broke off after only another minute of snogging and returned to the sights. "Zat is…" Gabrielle cut off as Benson burst back into the cabin.

Harry could instantly tell that something was very -_very_\- wrong. Benson, who had been perfectly composed at all times, was completely ashen. He all but collapsed into his chair as he clenched his hands tight enough to draw blood with his fingernails. He wasn't the only one to notice. Snape was watching the commodore with barely disguised wariness.

Benson spoke, his voice shaky. "They… the stupid bastards actually did it. You've all been out of the loop for a while, but things have gotten a lot worse in the last ten days. There's been worldwide rioting and looting. People refusing to continue working, or participating in mass suicides, are just the start of our problems. Pakistan lost control of its nuclear stockpile to a bunch of militant extremists about a week ago. They've been preaching about failing to uphold god's law and the sterility being god's wrath and they've declared what they're calling 'The Last Jihad' on the rest of the world. As of three minutes ago the extremists in Pakistan instigated a nuclear exchange with India." The cabin was silent as everyone digested this news.

"But if it's been known about for a week, why didn't anyone do something to stop them?" Harry asked. "It seems ridiculous to just let it happen."

"Don't get self-righteous with me! I know all too well how bad this is! But there wasn't anything to be done." Benson snapped. "Half of their military went rogue. The other half left and went home to their families. We could have sent in our forces, but we wouldn't have been helping the legitimate government fight insurgents, we would have been an invading force fighting against an organized military. And that would have had the locals against us and their more progressive leaders siding with the extremists. It would have provoked the very thing we would be trying to stop. And by then the militants already had control of the nukes, even if they didn't have the ability to launch them." He sighed. "If we tried to forcibly disarm them, the politicians would have given the militants the access codes to the nuclear arsenal. Instead we offered asylum to any government officials who were at risk, and got them and their families out of the country. Everyone with launch codes was evacuated. The militants shouldn't have been _able_ to launch. This isn't our fault. The situation over there is what it is, and has been for fifty years. We didn't do anything to cause this."

"And that's the problem." Harry snarled back. "_Nobody_ did anything; they just let it happen." Gabrielle squirmed on his lap until she could wrap her arms around him, giving him a firm hug and whispering a question in his ear. He calmed himself and answered her. "It's a muggle weapon that is unbelievably powerful. Even the smallest nukes make an explosion of heat and light so intense it kills everything within tens of kilometers instantly, and causes a shockwave of force to destroy everything within half again that distance. Then it leaves a radioactive residue in the air and on the ground, which is sort of like a poison that causes massive damage to the body depending on the amount and duration of exposure, and even if you survive _that_, it can cause a whole slew of diseases in the long term. Sixty years ago they could destroy most of a city with a single weapon, but now they are much more powerful. A handful of nukes could destroy the whole country. If Pakistan and India had a nuclear exchange, they would have fired _hundreds_ of nukes. And the radioactive pollution will spread all over the world and kill a lot of people."

Benson nodded, somewhat subdued. "They had over three hundred missile contacts on satellite track when I got the call, but the first few will have hit by now. It'll take another fifteen minutes before the furthest targets will be hit. But if they are staggering their launches it could take another hour, or maybe longer, before the active arsenals are expended. They probably won't hold back, under the assumption that they won't be able to retaliate after they're hit."

Ansgar was agitated. "If they took over less than a week ago, they couldn't have had launch capability so quickly. The system is designed so that if a failsafe is tripped it scrambles everything until a cypher is entered. Only three people had the full cypher, and another ten people, three generals and seven politicians, had one part of the cypher each. Pakistan refused to disarm completely and wouldn't allow for the chance that their nuclear arsenal could be disabled as a preempt to an attack. Any four of the ten who had parts of the code could have disarmed the failsafe, and any of the three who had the whole thing could have done the same. But none of them would have. Not willingly." Ansgar stated with a frown. He was a rocket scientist, and had spent a year modifying the guidance systems for those very missiles under a disarmament treaty enforced by the United Nations. He felt ashamed for his part in that, even if his modifications were meant to stop exactly this sort of thing from occurring. "There are too many failsafe's in place for this to just happen. The Americans insisted on that as a condition of their foreign aid. The militants would have either needed inside help or would have had to replace the guidance systems in the rockets. They could never have gotten the launch codes without a traitor and couldn't have targeted anyone otherwise. I know this. I helped design the failsafe." He stared at his friend. "So Harry's question is plenty legitimate. There was time to act, but nobody did."

"Because nobody wanted to send their people to die in another goddamn war!" Benson said. "We've spent too many lives already by getting involved in conflicts we had no place in. Why waste resources to deal with what was seen as someone else's problem."

"It's everyone's problem now." Ansgar pointed out.

"I _know_ that!" Benson replied, shaking his head and sighing. "I'm sorry, alright? The world's going to hell and people are losing hope. There's been no progress on finding a cure, and even the really abstract solutions aren't making headway. There's a bunch of genetics firms on the other side of the pond trying to give us another generation by using artificial insemination, but the fetus is miscarried every time. And keep in mind; they've done this before with success for couples that had trouble conceiving. They know what they're doing. But it isn't working. And we've heard absolutely nothing from the magical community, aside from you three. The rest of them have completely closed off contact with us. We don't know what's going on and to be honest I don't expect any good news to come from that direction."

"So what's going to happen now?" Ansgar asked. "Are we going to lose your support?"

Benson shook his head, reading through situation updates on his phone. "I owe you too much to fold on you. Besides, I think you're about to get a lot more help thrown at you."

Gabrielle looked up at him. "_Oui_?" Harry caught her eye and then looked at Benson, waiting for an answer.

"We've had a change in plans. We're going to see Her Majesty, the Queen."

XXXXXXXXXX

Snape was agitated, and he showed it by glaring at everyone they passed in the hall. They had been kept waiting for two hours after they arrived, due to the emergency session of the British Parliament. All of them had been subjected to a thorough search, to ensure that they carried no weapons. The Yeomen of the Guard had even taken their wands. They were just now being led to a room where they would be seated to await the Queen. Buckingham Palace lived up to its legacy as a beautiful piece of history and culture. The interior decor was exceedingly _British_ in a way that exemplified how much American and mainland European ideals had crept into Great Britain in the last fifty years. The very halls were steeped in tradition: history had been made in those rooms, the famous and the powerful had admired the paintings upon those walls, and the rulers of nations had tread upon those carpets.

Snape hated it all with passion. It was so blatantly _mundane_. It was everything he had left behind when he went to Hogwarts. Magic was his life, his future, and now it was gone and all that was left was a bitter past and memories better left forgotten. This place reminded him of too much that he would rather not recall. He sighed as they passed through the doors leading to a meeting room, a guard standing vigilantly to either side of the entryway. A tray of refreshments had been set upon the table, and he took a glass and poured himself some water from a pitcher before he took a seat. Gabrielle, Harry, and Ansgar sat to his left, and the muggle abstained a seat in favor of standing nearby.

Benson was still a mystery to him. The man was at once both easygoing and hardline in his manner, a contradiction that shouldn't be possible. He had two personas that he maintained; one professional and one private. It was clear that Ansgar knew his private self, and just as clear that his professional side disapproved of them acting friendly in this environment. Snape enjoyed watching the man struggle with himself. His entertainment ended quickly as the doors opened once again and a guard stepped in. Ansgar had coached them on the proper greeting already, and they stood as the guard announced her arrival.

"Her Majesty, the Queen." The guard said before stepping aside as an elderly matron walked in wearing a light pink dress. Another mundane, a thick man in an exceedingly well tailored suit, followed in just behind her. The guard then left and shut the doors behind him, leaving only the two standing guards behind to protect Her Majesty and the man in the suit. There was no mistaking her. This was the Queen, and she carried herself as such.

They bowed their heads to her and murmured. "Your Majesty." The only difference between them was that Gabrielle curtsied instead of bowing.

She glanced over them, and Snape was sure they made a less than impressive sight. He and Harry wore muggle street clothes, and Ansgar wore a pair of jeans and a flannel jacket. The only one who looked fit to meet the Queen was Gabrielle, who wore a pretty viridian dress. The Queen nodded once at them and took a seat on the opposite side of the table. She looked harried, but determined. Only then did they resume their seats.

Snape mentally went over the rules of etiquette. Not to speak unless spoken to, and refer to Her Majesty as Ma'am after the initial greeting. Snape also made a mental note to pray that she hadn't taken offense at the private war wizards have been waging across her nation for the last six years, or the countless mundane deaths caused by Voldemort's forces, or the imminent extinction of the human race that he set in motion, or… who was he trying to fool? She had every right to be furious with them.

She sighed wearily. "I've been informed that you intend to go back in time to stop this nightmare before it started. And that you, at least, are convinced that you have a chance." She glanced at Commandant Benson. "My advisors trust your judgement in that regard. So I will be throwing the full weight of this government behind your efforts. Mycroft." She said, turning to the man in the suit. "Make it so."

"Yes Ma'am." The man said, eyeing them with careful scrutiny.

The Queen continued, glancing at each of them in turn. "I still find it hard to believe in magic, and I won't pretend to understand what madness led your people to destroy your world, but I won't allow it to take ours as well. Not without a fight." She fixed her gaze on Harry. "I want an oath from you. I need to know that you will do everything you can to save my people."

A glance at Harry was all he needed to know that the boy intended to give her an oath. Snape couldn't stay silent at that. "Remember that in magical oaths it is intention that matters, not words. Your words need only reflect what you mean to promise."

Harry nodded and stood slowly, and Snape thought the guards might have tensed in their corners. Harry held his palm over his heart and spoke clearly. "I swear on my life's blood and my blood's magic that I will do right by you in return for your aid. I will do what I can to safeguard your people from Voldemort. And because there is no possible justice for his sins, I will seek vengeance upon him for the deaths he has wrought. So mote it be." A golden aura surrounded him as he completed the oath, shining brilliantly in the room as magic whipped around him. It faded after a few moments and the magic settled down.

The Queen had gasped at the display and her advisors appeared shocked. "That shouldn't be possible." Mycroft said. "You can't work magic in the Queen's presence."

"Huh?" Harry said to prove himself a dunderhead, and Snape pinched his brow in frustration.

"I've never seen it before." The Queen said.

"What?" Harry asked, trying to be polite despite his awkwardness. Gabrielle put her hand on his arm and squeezed, finally shutting him up. At least she could reign in his social folly.

"Magic." Her Majesty said. "I don't think I really believe in it. It's hard to put faith in it when you can't ever see it." She explained. "No matter how many times you're told that it really exists."

Harry looked at Ansgar, who shrugged, and then to Snape, who rolled his eyes. "There exists amongst the human population a subset of people who, like magicals, are born but rarely from mundanes. They are a sort of anti-magical; no magic can affect them and their very presence is destructive upon nearby magic. Any magic near them just sort of… unravels." He explained. "The Queen must be one of them."

"Indeed." The Queen said with a smile.

"It's a trait that follows bloodlines, though is manifests only rarely." Snape said.

Mycroft took pity on him and explained. "Most of the higher tiers of nobility, including the British Royal Family, are bloodlines that were founded by an… anti-magical, as you call them. Such people were sought after for their ability to dispute and counteract magicals, and quickly rose to positions of authority and influence because of their value to mundane society."

"The magical world likes to pretend such people do not exist, but in the past has worked together with these families to ensure peace between the realms." Snape finished.

Harry looked shocked. "I had no idea."

"That much was clear." Snape muttered.

"But it doesn't explain how he was able to work magic in Her Majesty's presence." Mycroft said. "And that is quite concerning. Almost all of our security regarding your people was based on the premise that our anti-magicals could counter your abilities. If that is no longer the case then we have lost our only advantage."

Snape shook his head. "It could be that the same judgement that is stripping us of our magic is removing your anti-magic." He suggested.

"It isn't anything like that." Harry said. Snape wondered what he was hearing, as he was obviously conversing silently with his magic. "It's because my magic is free. It can do things that no other magic can. It bends the rules."

Mycroft sighed. "Be that as it may-"

"Enough." The Queen said to him, silencing him instantly. She then turned to face Harry. "I accept your oath and I thank you for giving it. You have the support of the British government. See that you make use of it."

All he could do was nod.

XXXXXXXXXX

Harry was more than a little intimidated by the Queen. She had always been held in such high regard throughout his childhood that he carried over much of that deference upon meeting her. He ended up leaning on Gabrielle for support, being utterly clueless as to what he should do or say and not wanting to embarrass himself or anyone else by doing something wrong. Gabrielle seemed to have herself well under control, and took the entire meeting in stride. They spent an hour discussing what they were doing to prepare, and what he would do when he succeeded. There was a small argument that developed because the Queen wanted her government to have a hand in planning his mission while Harry wanted autonomy. In the end he won the argument because he was the only one who could make the temporal alchemy work. He did agree to pass along a message to them, much like the goblins had insisted in exchange for their help.

After that the Queen left, and Mycroft and Benson debriefed them on what resources they were offering. Everything from transportation and security to training and procurement; literally anything they needed that the government could provide was being offered.

They made a wish-list of the most critical items and exchanged it for contact details from Mycroft before he left, some three hours later. Benson explained that Mycroft was something like a combination of a civil servant and a personal aide to the crown, and had been for almost two decades. Mycroft was reserved, but sincere in his desire to help them. They spent the night in guest rooms provided by the staff, and left for Ansgar's workshop the next morning.

XXXXXXXXXX

Harry spent the next three months in an intensive training regimen. Jean-Baptiste Delacour had acquired an extensive library over his life, and had inherited an even larger collection from his wife's father. Several hundred books and papers were sent as a gift to aid in Harry's training, along with frequent visits from the man himself -as an excuse to visit his daughter- and a few of his older Auror friends from the continent. The British Aurors had all died in the war, but the French and Dutch wizards provided competent instruction and had experience to back it up.

Despite the handicap of not being able to use magic, the Aurors taught him well enough. Harry was still learning how to work with his magic to cast spells. It allowed itself to be pulled and shaped by him to perform the casting, but was also very temperamental and often petulant about answering his call. He did discover that even when it refused him, he could still perform simple magic. A '_**lumos**_' {lighting charm} or an '_**inhabilius**_' {fumbling jinx} were within his capabilities, but spells that used a lot of magic or required more complex actions to cast were beyond him. When using his magic he had to use a wand, and had adopted Dumbledore's as his own since his was destroyed. But when his magic was being uncooperative and he experimented with his unexplainable ability to keep using magic in spite of having none, he found that while he could use the wand to cast the lighting charm, it wasn't needed and didn't make it any stronger.

Ansgar and Harry debated endlessly about why he was still partially able to use magic even when _his_ magic refused him. The best guess was that all of the magical essences he had absorbed had somehow changed him. By freeing his magic he was no longer a wizard, and by fate or happenstance he was no longer entirely human either. Dumbledore and Flamel's work on alchemy was another topic of study between them. Ansgar had converted his runic array into a series of equations and had Mycroft running them on a few supercomputers, plotting out the most stable configuration, so they had nothing better to focus on while they waited. Harry learned a lot about how magic and alchemy worked.

The branch of magic wizards called transfiguration wasn't anything of the sort. Instead of actually altering something, transfiguration imposed an illusion upon reality. It changed how something was perceived and used magic to force it into existing that way. But the universe resists such change. A sort of checksum existed whereby reality reasserted itself and broke through the illusion, dispelling the transfiguration. True transmutation worked by overpowering this checksum effect through massive amounts of magic so that the universe simply gave up trying to fix it and accepted it as it was, making the illusion real. After that, so far as the universe was concerned, the transfigured object had _always_ been that way, and it would resist change from that new state of existence. Conjuration worked in much the same way: though it was much harder to bring into existence, it was also much easier to make permanent or maintain over time.

Alchemy by contrast attacked the checksum mechanism and hijacked it, befuddling the universe into believing that the object was out of its natural state and triggering the correction mechanism to 'revert' it to its proper form. Alchemy didn't require magic from the wizard, because the universe provided the energy instead. But as Flamel had warned them, equivalent exchange mattered when using Alchemy. The energy the universe expended on the alchemy had to be repaid, least the universe call in the debt at an inconvenient time, and although magic was a form of currency it wasn't the only one that could be used. It had shocked all of them to learn that Flamels' famous elixir of life had made Nicolas and Perenelle both squibs. The elixir had allowed them to retain their youth forever but at the cost of their inherent magic. While they had access to the elixir they healed unbelievably fast from any wound that didn't instantly kill them and didn't age beyond the moment they first drank it. If they stopped drinking it, they would begin aging again after only a few months, but their magic would not return for many years, if it ever did. There was some question as to whether it would, and if it would be as strong as it was before imbibing the elixir. They had all access to all the gold they could ever need to perform ritual magic, but normal means of using magic were no longer possible for them. The Flamels, being master alchemists, had found a clever solution to their problem. They alchemized their own lifespans to gain the magic needed to cast a spell.

Every spell either of them used would age them a few seconds, or a few minutes, or even a few hours for the stronger magics. Had Voldemort gained the stone in Harry's first year, and used it to resurrect himself, he would have been nullified as a threat. It was funny to think about the Dark Lord being stuck without magic for several years. It may not have lasted forever, but it would have been more than long enough to capture and destroy him. Harry felt the briefest pangs of regret that he had stopped the Dark Lord from gaining the stone. Had he known the depth of the trap set by Dumbledore, he would have allowed Voldemort to walk into it. Even if the Dark Lord had managed the same feat of alchemy that the Flamels had, he would have died from old age within a few years, simply from the ridiculous amount of magic he constantly used.

Harry's personal project was intended as a means of counteracting the dementors. He was trying to design a runic array that reproduced the effect of a patronus. Harry figured out a method of having small runic chains merge vectors to draw significantly more power into the array, but the chains were too large to easily fit on an object that could be carried. Ansgar suggested using mundane technology to carve the runes smaller and more precisely than could be done by hand. Harry agreed to try it out and had already acquired wood to build a staff for the purpose of channeling the array. The heather wood was carefully stripped down, leaving one end heavier than the other. The rough staff was then taken to a muggle university where a scanning tunneling electron microscope was used to carve the runic array into the wood. It would take several weeks to complete the first three chains and almost a month to carve the main array.

Gabrielle had attached herself to him and made herself a part of Harry's routine. She ensured that he ate, even when he was engrossed in his work, and dragged him off to bed for rest each night. She was also an accomplished witch in her own right, and her advanced study of arithmancy allowed her to contribute to his work. She spent the evenings teaching him French while trying to convince him to make love to her. She succeeded more often than not.

Harry continued to pursue his animagus forms, and the meditations had become so easy with practice that he could now close his eyes and delve into himself within moments. The forest clearing that represented his mindscape had not changed much. He did have two new occupants: an enflamed avian that was a veela and a shadowy apparition that was a dementor fought on the shore of the pond. Their battle was a constant struggle that gave him a headache every time he entered this place within him. The veela threw fire and poured out intense heat even as the dementor sucked the warmth from the air and gave off pulses of bitter cold. After being hit by a stray fireball during one of his ventures into himself, Harry had had enough and said as much to the embattled spirits.

"Enough!" He shouted. "This ends now!" He was, after all, somewhere within himself. He had some measure of control over the place where all of the essences gathered inside his mind and soul. With a wave of his hand, the water of the pond rose up and crashed down upon the dementor, whereupon the dementor's own power froze the water solid, trapping it within the ice. The dementor let out a raspy cry of frustration, but couldn't break free. Then another wave of his hand threw up a wall of mud from the shore of the pond, covering the veela from head to foot and snuffing out its fire. The veela shrieked and focused on him, but when it tried to burn him the heat dried out the mud and hardened it into clay, imprisoning it within a mound of earth. Both creatures screeched their indignation, but Harry was unmoved. "I won't tolerate any more of this nonsense! Stay put until I decide otherwise." He told them before he returned to the waking world. He didn't see the fox watching with interest from the edge of the clearing.

During a weekend trip to visit Godric's Hovel Harry brought up his attempts at achieving his animagus forms. The founder's reactions startled him.

"You have a magical animal as your animagus form?" Rowena repeated herself in disbelief.

"Several, actually." Harry said. "I've been trying to work towards them through meditation, since I don't have the potion to cheat and a brilliant witch once told me that the potion forcing the first transformation was probably the reason wizards only had one form, since the druids were known to be able to shift into more animal shapes long before the potion was discovered. If I achieve it naturally I might be able to do the same."

"You mustn't!" Salazar exclaimed. "If you do complete it you'll be trapped in that form forever. You won't be able to change back. Potion or no potion, it wouldn't matter."

"What!?" Harry demanded.

"It's something that happens when an animagus becomes a magical creature. They must shed their human form forever in order to become their animal, and if they do so then they are stuck." Rowena explained. "We know from experience." She grimaced.

Harry blinked at her. "Really?"

Godric coughed lightly. "Godric Giles Fawkes Gryffindor, at your service." He said simply.

"You mean…" Harry trailed off.

"Yes." Salazar said. "The school phoenix is actually Godric in his animagus form. He has been trapped as Fawkes for almost a thousand years. He was the one who helped you down in the Chamber of Secrets."

"That changes things." Harry said sadly, shaking his head. "My animagus forms would have been a huge advantage; one that I was hoping to master before I go back. Would being a listener affect that?" He asked hopefully.

Helga shook her head. "I don't know of any that were in your situation. Being a listener and having a magical animagus is a unique occurance. And having more than one magical animagus is another besides. Who can say how it would work out? But I caution you all the same against trying. You remain the only hope for a chance to right the wrongs that have befallen the world. I would not squander it by rushing into this."

Harry nodded at her advice. "I do have a non-magical animagus form: an albino fox." He said. "Hopefully I can at least take that shape, so all my efforts to achieve an animagus transformation won't have been wasted." He sighed and made to leave.

"Before you go, you should know that it is possible to achieve a partial transformation: to take a part of the animal without taking the whole of it." Rowena explained. "It isn't really my area of expertise, but that might allow you to use some of the creature's abilities without becoming trapped in their form."

"I'll look into it." Harry promised before he left.

XXXXXXXXXX

Harry was in Ansgar's workshop attempting to design his own runic array when the post was delivered with a package for him. He looked at the large brown box curiously, wondering who it could be from. His magic came forth and wrapped itself around him comfortingly, and not a little protectively, setting him on edge. If his magic was concerned, he should be too. He opened the package to find a letter and a small wooden box. Opening the letter he began to read, only to collapse into his chair.

" 'arry!" Gabrielle shouted, rushing to his side. "Wat iz it? Are you alright?"

"Aleksei… he's dead." Harry said, letting himself cry in her arms. "He said that with Voldemort dead his part was… was finished." He paused, unsure how to say it. "Aleksei killed himself. This is his farewell." He threw the letter on the table and stood up, holding Gabrielle tight against his side. "He says he keyed me into the enchantments and sent me his pistol as a parting gift, along with instructions for making the bullets." He carefully lifted the smaller box out and opened it to reveal the dark colored steel of the masterwork artifact. This pistol was the pinnacle of the Zolnerowich family's craft. It represented over a thousand years of smithing talent and enchanting knowledge. It was an heirloom and a showpiece used to exemplify their expertise and the proficiency of their art. Aleksei's great-grandfather had made two of the guns, though one was lost and presumed destroyed. His work had yet to be surpassed.

"I'm so sorry, 'arry." Gabrielle said softly. "I'm sure 'e knew wat you were trying to accomplish and only wanted to 'elp you 'owever 'e could."

"I know… it's just that I also knew how much he was hurting; losing his family like he did, being cursed into killing them… I can't imagine how horrible the memory was for him. I know he had constant nightmares. It must have tormented him every day, to remember that his family was gone and it was his fault… to have been forced to murder his own kin. All he had left was revenge. I should have contacted him sooner, brought him here and got him involved with our efforts. Maybe if he felt he had some purpose he wouldn't have taken his own life. He was my friend, and I just forgot about him. Yet another dead friend that I've failed." Harry cried softly, and Gabrielle kissed away his tears.

She placed her hands to either side of his face and held his gaze. "You 'ave not failed him or anyone else." She insisted. "Remember zat 'e lost 'is 'ole family. And 'e is not zee only one zhat has taken 'is own life. Neizur iz your doing, neizur was your choice to 'ave 'appen. It was 'is own choice to take 'is life. Respect zhat 'e knew 'imself and was ready to be wizz 'is family again. I am sorry you lost your friend, but it is _not_ _your_ _fault_." She said.

Harry nodded and held her close, savoring her presence and her undemanding love.

XXXXXXXXXX

Harry was deep in his morning meditation when he felt the pulse of magic calling to him. He got shakily to his feet and let everyone know he would be leaving for a bit before he called on his magic to disapparate him. He arrived just outside the grounds of Hogwarts, and felt another pulse of magic latch onto him, calling him inside the castle. He followed the pulses as they led him to the remains of the seventh floor and the room of requirement. The door was already present and he tentatively stepped inside. His magic reassured him that this was a good thing.

What he found was a single stone room with circular walls and evenly spaced windows standing from floor to ceiling. The view seemed to be from many hundreds of feet above the castle, and the midmorning light shone brightly through the southeastern panes. In the middle was a bricked well with a thin circle of stone surrounding the water filled hole. Water filled the well up to the lip of the stone, and as he approached it rippled and whirled. The water dropped in the center of the pool as a vortex reached for the bottom. A small and faintly glowing stone rose up from the depths and hovered above the well as the water settled, almost as if waiting for him to take it. Harry reached out and grasped it with his hand, and the blue-white stone twinkled like starlight as the strongest pulse of magic he had ever felt washed over him. He passed out in a heap on the floor.

…

… …

… … "Where am I...?"

…

… … … He watched through disembodied eyes as his younger self stabbed a black diary with a basilisk fang he pulled from his arm… Tom Riddle's phantom screamed and hissed as he died, and Harry's younger self smiled as Ginny took a gasping breath even as his eyes clouded over and blackness overtook his vision…

… …

… "What is going on…?"

… … …

… … The phoenix cried on his younger self's arm, but it had no effect. He watched the small boy that was once him convulse on the floor, dying from the basilisk venom in his blood. He didn't remember it happening like this… Ginny was still unconscious, and he thought that she had woken immediately. He also didn't remember dying. The phoenix sang and cried and it wasn't enough… His younger self was losing the battle to live…

…

… … "This isn't right! It didn't happen like this… did it…?"

…

… In the corner of the chamber the shadows deepened and slid across the floor, converging on a single point where the darkness thickened and became impossible to see through… A tall and hauntingly beautiful woman dressed in a silk tunic stepped out of the darkness as though it were a portal to some alien realm… She approached the younger Harry and knelt beside him, glancing only once at the diary and the corpse of the basilisk… Fawkes stepped back with a single trill, watching her warily. She smiled at the boy before her, and he saw that her eyes were slitted and her mouth had a pair of wickedly sharp fangs. She slid the tunic down to expose her breast and leaned over him. With one hand she held his mouth open and with the other she squeezed milk from her tit and guided the flow down his throat…

… …

… "What the actual fuck…?"

… … …

… … "This can't be right…!"

…

… … His younger self stopped convulsing, and the woman softly caressed his forehead, wiping the stray hair from his face…. Then she stood and covered herself again while speaking with a hiss. §You won't remember this for a long time, my child, but that is likely for the best.§ She paused and turned to stare in the direction from which the disembodied Harry saw the vision… Then she grinned, and Harry knew that she was somehow seeing _him_, even though he was apparently having a vision of the past… §Do not be frightened, my child, for I am your new mother, Andarial Slytherin. Know that you are reborn a lamia, the emperor of serpents. As I am the umbilical that ties life to the world so you shall be as well. Fear not the trials that are to come. Yours is the path that cuts through fate and forges your own destiny.§ With a final smirk she turned and left, vanishing back into the shadows… Fawkes gave a warbled cry and rushed back to the young Harry's side, shedding tears once more upon the wound, and this time to greater affect… The injury was healed and the younger Harry woke up just as the vision faded…

…

… "Could that have actually happened…?"

… …

Harry woke with a start in a barren shell of a room, the ceiling having collapsed in a corner and the wall to his left missing entirely. His hand was still clutching the glowing blue stone, his fingers almost numb from the strength of his grip. He sat up and took stock of himself. He was whole and uninjured. Stumbling from the room he discovered that he was still on the seventh floor and that the ruined room was actually the room of requirement. But its magic was gone, and all the magic about the castle was fading rapidly. Harry glanced at the blue stone and wondered if it had been the source of power for not just the room, but the whole of the castle. It wasn't anything like the hearthstone used to anchor the wards at Grimmauld Place. It was much too small, for one thing. The Black family wards were tied to a hearthstone the size of a boulder, set into the floor of the basement. The glowing blue stone was like a marble: barely larger than his thumb was wide, and perfectly round without any glyphs, runes, or other markings.

He puzzled it over for a while before deciding to leave the castle. It wasn't safe anymore; with the wards finally collapsing the structure had become unsafe. His magic obliged him and took him back to Ansgar's lab with the crack of disapparation.

XXXXXXXXXX

That night he had a strange dream, which he vividly remembered upon waking. In the dream he had found himself in the same forest clearing that laid at the center of his mental landscape, but devoid of the many spiritual essences that normally dwelt there. Instead, resting upon a flat stone that stuck out into the water of the pool was a beautiful woman with flowing black hair that shimmered in the moonlight. She turned her head to look back at him, and her alabaster skin seemed to glow faintly with a pale light. He stared at her terrible beauty, unable to look away or even think to say anything. Her green eyes twinkled with delight and she smiled warmly at him. With a wave of her hand she beckoned him closer and he felt compelled to approach.

Her legs dangled off the edge of the stone, with her bare feet only just touching the surface of the water. She wore a thin dress that was more of a toga, with flecks of silver sparkling across its shimmering folds. "**Harry.**" She spoke, and her voice was like the echo of a choir. It was at once both overpowering and melodious, yet he felt himself enraptured all the same. He stopped walking and sat beside her. "**You poor boy.**" She said sadly, pulling him into a hug. "**I have watched you for so very long, and was never able to do anything for you.**"

"Who are you?" He asked, still in awe of her presence.

"**You may call me Promethia.**" She said. "**I was the heart and soul of Hogwarts.**" She informed him. "**I have born witness to your trials, as I have for all the students who walked through my halls. I have always sought to guide them as best I could, and always done everything within my power to cultivate their potential and keep them safe. I am very sorry to have failed you so badly.**"

He was talking with _Hogwarts?_ In his mindscape? And she called herself Promethia? He had to ask. "Promethia? Named after the god Promethius?"

"**I am the same.**" She said. "**We gods and goddesses have no gender save that which we adopt as our own. I've spent the last thousand years acting as a nurturing mother to the students who passed through my halls, and through that experience I've taken on the aspect of a woman.**"

She didn't seem bothered by the change in her gender, so Harry was going to do his best to ignore the issue. It was awkward enough talking to a genuine goddess; the fact that he was in fascinated by her beauty and barely fumbling his way through talking to her only made it worse. "You're the one who called me back to the school." He realized. She nodded with a hum of agreement. "The stone!" He exclaimed. "That's why it isn't like any other hearthstone. You're somehow connected to the school through the stone." He reasoned. "And you were the one who showed me what happened down in the chamber!"

"**Yes. I shared my own perception of events with you.**" She replied. "**And as you have guessed, I am bound to the stone. It is my prison. I would ask that you take it with you when you leave. There is nothing left for me in this dying world.**"

"Prison?" Harry asked, suddenly feeling wary. "You were imprisoned and forced to watch over Hogwarts?"

"**Not at all.**" She said with a light laugh. "**I was imprisoned a very long time ago by my fellow gods and goddesses for the sin of betrayal. I aided mankind by giving them the fires of divinity. I taught them magic such as the gods and goddesses wielded. Humanity was once kept as nothing more than slaves to the whims of my brothers and sisters, and I… foolish youth that I was… fell in love with one of you.**"

Harry stayed respectfully silent.

"**She was a child that I decided to adopt as my own. But she was taken from me by my fellows, to teach me a lesson about my place in the world and show that it was improper for me to hold any sort of true affection for one of you. I was forced to watch her die, and choose between prolonging her suffering or ending her life. She begged me to kill her, but I simply couldn't bring myself to murder her. She was **_**my child**_**.**" A few tears fell down her cheek, and her eyes shown with emotion. "**She suffered for days before she finally died. I swore that I would bring about retribution for her death. With my actions I ensured that humanity had the power to fight back. And so when humanity rebelled against the gods and made war upon heaven, it was my vengeance wrought upon them. I watched my fellow gods and goddesses die at their hands.**"

"So how were you imprisoned?" Harry asked.

"**My brothers and sisters knew what I had done, and what the result of my actions would eventually be, so they punished me for my betrayal long before humanity was ready to fight them, and attempted to eradicate any humans who had been given my gift. But their effort only galvanized humanity against them, and brought about their downfall that much sooner.**" She smiled and brushed the hair from his face. He blinked at the softness of her touch and the warm feeling it evoked. "**I may be limited within my prison, but I am **_**still**_** a goddess. I can reach out with my will and exert some influence on the world around me. I was found by one of my first students, a human mage of great power who then sought for all of his life to break me free of my prison.**"

"Who was he?" Harry asked. "Your student?"

Promethia smiled fondly at him. "**Zodiac Constellus Blackstaff.**" Harry gave a startled cough at the name."**I believe you recognize the name as one of your ancestors.**"

"He was my earliest ancestor, actually. According to the genealogy record my magic produced he was born over five thousand years ago. I can hardly believe you're that old."

"**It isn't polite to comment on a woman's age.**" She admonished him. "**But as you can see, he was never able to free me. Humanity may now hold the fires of divinity, but they will never have the absolute power or intricate precision that a god wields such magic with. My prison is not something any mortal can free me from. Though my student had not given up, I bid him to find another place for me. And where better than a school of magic? Am I not the goddess who gave magic to humanity? Did I not teach the first mages how to use it?**"

Harry nodded. "I guess that makes sense." He said. "But wait… You're saying that you had _him_ place you in the school? But Hogwarts was only founded a thousand years ago. How could Blackstaff have still been alive? That was way past his time."

"**Blackstaff was my greatest student.**" She mused cryptically. "**The gods and goddesses were divine, and they could not die because they were immortal. Having such power as to be immortal is the literal the definition of godhood. And yet humanity slew the gods. Is that not a paradox?**" She asked.

"So how do you kill the unkillable?" Harry wondered.

"**You strip them of their divinity. You take away their godhood and make them mortal.**" Promethia said.

"But it has to go somewhere." Harry realized. It was the same as the law of magic that did not allow for any unique magic to go extinct.

She nodded. "**They each took a part of it into themselves; my thirteen students. But mortals were never meant to live forever. They went insane and had to be sealed away. It was done as kindly as was possible, silencing their madness with a dreamless slumber. It was a most terrible burden for any soul to bear; an eternity of nothingness. Only Blackstaff retained himself after the first millennia. He had given himself a purpose, upon which he focused all of his existence: to safeguard his bloodline and ensure the future of his lineage. But he was betrayed by some of his descendants, who saw only how he limited their power. It was well that we had already parted from each other, so that I was kept from their foolish hands. I know not what happened to him, other than that he has not answered my call in eight hundred years.**"

Harry couldn't conceive of anyone living for that long. He certainly never wanted to. It just didn't make sense to him. He would go back in time to save his friends and hopefully the world, but he wanted to see his parents someday, and he could only do that in the afterlife. Harry had once thought that Dumbledore was old and wise, but now he seemed so very young when compared against Blackstaff. Harry tried to imagine just who his ancestor had been. Blackstaff had tens of centuries in which to learn magic, and had an actual goddess to teach him. He must have been really powerful. Maybe even on the level of Merlin. If only he had still been around to help against Voldemort. Harry wondered what could have killed him if he had become immortal. Maybe his family sealed him away like Promethia's other twelve students had been. If so, then Harry might be able to find where he was sealed and release him. Blackstaff would surely be an ally. He was Harry's ancestor and had sworn himself to the purpose of protecting his descendants, and Promethia had said that Blackstaff was her best student so he had to be really powerful. Harry suddenly perked up with an idea. "Could you teach me?" He asked Promethia.

She smiled. "**It is why I called you to me.**" She told him.

XXXXXXXXXX

Three more months passed and Harry had fallen into a demanding routine. In the morning he would train with magical instructors sent by the Delacours and sometimes work on his own projects. After lunch he would spend the afternoon training with soldiers on loan from the British military learning tactics and strategy even as he struggled to attain physical fortitude. And in the evening he worked with tutors hired from the local university to make up for years of missed mundane schooling. Each night was spent sharing his dreamscape with Promethia learning new magic and training his spirit. He continued to push himself to attain results, but the effort was beginning to wear him down.

"'ou need to rest!" Gabrielle insisted. "Take a few days ouff. Zee world won't end in zee meantime." The look of disbelief he gave her made her snort. "Any more than it already is." She added. "Come on. Trust me. 'ou'll perform better if 'ou've 'ad some time to recuperate." The wink she gave him told him all he needed to know about which sort of performance she was concerned about. Harry knew he hadn't been as attentive to her during their lovemaking as he perhaps should have been. And they hadn't even made love for almost a week; which was the longest time spent without doing so since they had gotten together. His long days left him exhausted to the point where he only wanted to sleep.

"I'll think about it." He promised. He would make sure he intimately and physically expressed his love to her that night.

And as if she knew what he was thinking she kissed him seductively on the lips. "I'll 'old 'ou to zat." She said, and promptly sat in his lap to steal some of his breakfast. He smiled indulgently at her as she used his fork to feed him bites of food.

After breakfast they parted and he didn't see her again until that afternoon. He entered the gym to meet up with the royal marine who had been assigned to train him for the day, and had only just greeted the man when Gabrielle arrived. "Corporal, I will be tending to 'is physical training for zee day. I need to see 'is endurance for myself." She told the marine.

"Huh?" Harry had time to ask as she jumped on him. Her arms entwined about his neck as her legs wrapped around his hips, the weight of her impact making him stagger. The marine was a credit to his country and immediately abandoned Harry to his fate, retreating in the face of overwhelmingly superior force.

Gabrielle pressed her lips against his to silence him and that seemed enough to explain the situation. Five hours later they left the gym, still smelling strongly of sex. Harry didn't even argue when she once again brought up the need for a vacation. He was a fast learner.

XXXXXXXXXX

It turned out that the Delacours had a small homestead on a private island in the Balearic Sea. Gabrielle imposed on her father to grant them access, while Harry politely asked Mycroft to arrange their transport to the island. Mycroft laughed at him when he explained his reasons, but agreed that he had been working very hard and could probably use the reprieve. Harry promised to return in three days, but Mycroft insisted he take a week. They were still waiting on the computers to crunch the numbers for the equations, though it wouldn't be too much longer. When that was done, there likely wouldn't be any opportunity to take a break from things, so it was better for him to take some time off.

Gabrielle smiled victoriously when they landed on the beach. The military plane had taken them to a small airbase in southern France, where they then took a helicopter to the island. The Delacour's island home was uniquely beautiful. The entire south side of the island was a single massive beach, with white-tan sand and clear-blue water. A small forest encircled the homestead, and a glass menagerie was built beside it. They only housed birds, but there were many exotic species kept within.

"Come 'ere 'arry." Gabrielle called to him, leading him into the menagerie. "Meet _Fiona_." She said. She held her arm out and a massive bird with blue-green feathers flapped down to land on her. Harry almost thought it was a phoenix at first, but although magical, the bird turned out to be something like an owl. Tamed and trained to carry packages and mail. It regarded him with intense hate.

"I don't think she likes me." Harry muttered.

"Non, 'arry!" Gabrielle insisted. "'ou being zilly."

She turned to bring the bird closer to him, electing a screech of protest from the animal, who swiped a razor-sharp talon at his face. He leaned away just enough to avoid being lacerated. "No, I think she's quite hostile."

"_Fiona!_" Gabrielle admonished. The bird shrieked another hiss at Harry before taking off. Gabrielle harrumphed. "_Très bien!_ Be zat way." She grabbed Harry's hand and took him to the house, locking the menagerie up behind them. "'arry." She said. He looked inquiringly at her. "Don't stray near zee menagerie while 'ou are 'ere. _Fiona_ does not seem to like you."

"I'd noticed." Harry said blandly.

XXXXXXXXXX

Two days into their stay, an otherworldly shriek and a furious roar awoke them. It was late morning, with the sun already well into the sky, and if it were not for the late night Harry had spent with Gabrielle, both of them would have been awake much sooner. Harry snatched up Dumbledore's wand and went outside to investigate. What he saw startled him into disbelief. There was a Kraken on the beach, a few hundred meters away from the house. And it was being attacked by a Dragon. The dragon was not like any Harry had ever seen. It was moderately smaller, but also sleeker and more dangerous. It had four legs, two wings, and a tail. Its skin was armored with hardened plates of interlocking scales that appeared scorched and burned, and its neck was short and guarded by a ridged crown that jutted back from its head. It roared again, flapping its wings twice before spitting fire at the Kraken.

The Kraken was harder to define. Krakens had an incredible regeneration that let them survive otherwise fatal injuries and even regrow lost limbs, but they didn't always grow back the same way. Sometimes they grew tentacles, other times they grew legs or claws. Sometimes their bodies were long and serpentine, while in other cases they were more like squids or lobsters. They lived pretty much forever, and kept growing for as long as they were alive, a few inches each year. This Kraken had to be a thousand years old, at least, given its size. It held itself upright on four massive limbs that sprouted from its torso and ended in a single claw, though the lower bulk of its body was supported by six smaller legs beneath it. It had armored chitin that was easily a match for the Dragon's scales, and a mass of six clawed tentacles sprouting from its back. Its head was almost humanoid, except for the circular mouth surrounded on all sides by rows of teeth. Its torso was also vaguely humanoid, and it had two arms with clawed hands. Its lower body was distinctly aquatic; ending in a finned tail that was covered in spiked chitin.

The Kraken was only partially on the beach. Most of its lower body was churning up the water. But it shrieked a challenge at the Dragon and held itself higher, some of its smaller legs lifted out of reach of the ground. The Dragon roared in response and dove upon it, slamming it back onto the sand. The Dragon's wings ended in sharp claws that struck again and again as it flapped, and the Kraken hissed in pain, twisting to the side and using its hands to push the Dragon away. A tentacle whipped around and lashed out at the dragon, scoring a mark on the weak membrane of its wing. It growled and spat more fire.

Despite the Kraken's regeneration, the burning inflicted by the Dragon's magical fire did not immediately heal. It would, eventually, but it would take far longer than any normal wound. A single downward stroke of its wings brought the Dragon into the air again, and it dove forward tackling the Kraken. The mythical beasts tumbled down the beach, with the Kraken landing on its back and the Dragon raking the claws of its hind legs against the softer tissue of its underside. The Kraken screeched in pain and wrapped its tentacles and legs around the Dragon, pulling it into a grapple.

"Bloody hell!" Harry whispered. He turned back to find Gabrielle standing in the doorway. "We've got to move. Now!" Gabrielle was frozen in place, staring at the sight before her. "_Gabrielle!_" Harry said, grabbing her hand and pulling her away from the house and towards the forest. She stumbled and caught herself on him. He could see that she was trembling, and she held onto his hand so tightly that it hurt.

The Kraken spat a black oily gunk at the Dragon, and the sticky ink latched onto its face. The Dragon clawed and scraped at it, but it wouldn't come off. Finally the Dragon spat its fire and burned the ink away. Except that the ink ignited with a pale green flame that seemed to burn even the dragon. Its fierce cry of outrage was eclipsed by the Kraken's shriek of triumph. The clawed limbs of the Kraken scraped against the plates of scale covering the Dragon, and then they found purchase. With enormous strength the Kraken peeled back the plate and stabbed into the flesh beneath, to the agonized roaring of the Dragon.

The Dragon brought its wings up and then down, and then again and again. Then it, somehow, lifted both combatants into the air. Five more flaps brought them even higher, and then the Dragon tore itself free and dropped the Kraken. It fell onto the house with a thunderous crash that sent debris hurling away, and lay there on its side. Then the Dragon flew up and pounced. It landed like a raptor, tearing into the back and neck of the Kraken with the sheer force of its impact. Its forelegs grabbed the face of the Kraken and pulled its mouth open, snapping its jaw with the strength of its arms. The Kraken hissed and its tentacles surged up, crackling with arcs of electricity as they wrapped around the dragon's neck and constricted. The dragon choked, and then spat its dark red fire down the Kraken's throat. With one last heave, the Kraken curled upon itself, and the force of the motion twisted the Dragon's neck until it broke. But the damage was done; the Kraken was burned from the inside, and unable to regenerate damage caused by magical fire, it died bleeding its black blood.

"D-did zat just 'appen!?" Gabrielle asked.

"Yes." Harry replied. "Yes it did." _And what a horrible coincidence_, he thought.

_**This is certainly not a coincidence. **_Promethia informed him._** You are being forged into a weapon by Magic itself. It intends for you to take their essences. A dragon and a kraken are potent magical creatures, both at least the equal of a phoenix and a basilisk. Their power will aid you on your quest.**_

_Why is it doing this? And what if I don't want it?_ Harry wondered. _I feel like all of this… its changing me into something else; something that isn't me._

_**Magic is **_**alive**_**. And it's **_**powerful**_**. It is a **__**quasi**__**-omnipotent fundamental force of existence that is both sapient and sentient. And sometimes it likes to… flirt with the rules of non-interference**_._** Such changes to your own essence may be the cost you must pay to achieve your goals.**_ Promethia replied. _**I am not overly worried. You would not have been chosen if you did not have the potential to succeed. But it will be up to you to overcome the obstacles you will face. I can only help so much.**_

Harry sighed and nodded to himself. Stepping forward he was stopped when Gabrielle tugged on his arm. "'arry? W-what? W-w-where're you going?" She all but cried.

"I have to do something. I'll be right back, I promise." He told her.

Her face hardened into resolve and she stepped forward with him. "I am _not_ leaving 'ou." She informed him.

He smiled at her and nodded, putting his arm around her shoulder. "I love you, so please be careful." He said.

"You too!" She touched his nose with her finger. "I 'eard about zee last dragon 'ou fought."

He kissed her finger. "No worries. We'll both be careful."

They approached the two colossal bodies. "Do 'ou know what 'ou're doing?" Gabrielle asked.

"Not a clue." Harry replied. An impulse struck him and he reached over to touch the black blood coating the Kraken's skin. It was like sticky oil that flowed over his fingers and hand. He pulled his hand back and let it slide off, ready to call on his magic to clean him when a spark of electricity arced along the Kraken's skin. It struck him and ignited the oil covering his hand. For a moment he screamed, grabbing his wrist and trying to call on his magic to help him. Then the pain vanished and he stared at his horribly charred skin as green flames still licked away at his hand. But the blood erupting from his blistered flesh bubbled and hissed as if it were boiling, and he watched in shock as his tissue spontaneously regenerated. The pale-green flames guttered and died, leaving unblemished flesh behind. Then he noticed that Gabrielle was still screaming. "Hush." He hugged her and murmured to her. "It's okay. I'm fine, see?"

She stopped screaming long enough to look, but then immediately started shouting in French and hitting him repeatedly. "_Vous_ _Espèce d'imbécile!_" She informed him as she finally stopped.

"I'm sorry!?" Harry replied, having no idea what she had said.

"_Oui!_ _Vous feriez mieux d'être!_" She told him.

"Okay, now I just have to see about the dragon." He said.

This was apparently the wrong thing to say, as she erupted into another screaming fit.


End file.
